The Measure of a Man
by Riene
Summary: Modern-day setting. Returning to her university town in the northern USA, Christine Daae meets two very different, intriguing men. R/C, E/C, angst, drama, romance, mystery. WIP.
1. Chapter 1 Prologue

**A/N** —At long last I've decided to publish my modern day Phantom AU. There are twenty-six chapters completed at this point, though I'm sure they will undergo revision as the story evolves. This will not be everyone's cup of tea or even coffee, for it is essentially a modern-day love story with a phantomesque twist. You'll find our old familiar characters but in a 21st century setting, doing slightly different things, with different backgrounds and careers. The first few chapters are rather short, but subsequent ones will be much longer.

I hope you'll give it a chance, and as always, I appreciate feedback, comments, and questions.

~Riene

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The Measure of a Man

Chapter 1 Prologue

2016\. 2017

The end of the lawsuit brought two realizations—the knowledge that if she managed things well, she would never need to work again, and the bittersweet knowledge that her life, as she had known it up to then, was irrevocably over.

Christine and her best friend of many years, Meg Giry, sat sipping iced caramel macchiatos under the shaded awning at Starbucks on a Saturday afternoon. For Meg, a top tier dancer with the renowned city ballet, they were probably all the calories she would consume that day. Meg was a natural beauty, all huge hazel eyes and upswept ash-blond curls, long and lean and graceful from twenty-four years of training. Sitting on the wire mesh chair with her impossibly long legs curled sideways and her bohemian clothing, she looked more like an avant-garde supermodel than the girl who had stayed up late nights watching old movies and giggling over the screen heroes of decades past.

"What will you do now?" she asked, fanning away a curious bee. "It's a big chance for you, you know…you could travel, you could retire and go anywhere, do anything." She leaned forward and squeezed Christine's fingers. "Please don't think that I'm callous—I'm not—but you need to think, Chris, before you do anything rash."

"Have you ever known me to do anything rash?" Christine raked her hand through her long brown hair, twisting it up and fanning her neck, wishing this was not one of the warmest springs on record.

Meg grinned evilly. "Yes. The year in college you cut off your hair and permed it. What the hell were you thinking, anyway? You looked like a …"

"Shut _up_! You swore you'd never mention that again!" Christine cracked the first smile she'd had seen in weeks and Meg privately congratulated herself. Christine had been depressed for months after the deaths of her parents and the endless rounds of haggling lawyers and court appearances. She took another sip of her drink and sighed appreciatively.

"Lovely. You should never have introduced me to these. But no, really, Chris, what are you going to do? You've been talking about making a change for a while."

"Finish the school year, of course."

"Of course," Meg echoed. Christine was the consummate professional. She'd taught Junior High history at a private preparatory school for the last five years. Over her annual evaluation, the principal had approached her with a proposal. She could complete her Master's degree and get a high school certification, and they would be delighted to have her on staff at the upper division main building. It meant more money and fewer preps, more prestige. She knew Christine had been seriously considering it. The problem was getting her moving beyond her grief and the usual end-of-the-year exhaustion and inertia. Meg narrowed her eyes determinedly. This year, she'd see to it.

Two months later, Christine leaned on the balcony of a small rented condo in the achingly familiar college town she loved. The day could not have been more storybook-idyllic. Fluffy white clouds drifted across the perfect blue sky, a light breeze stirred the dark green trees and brought the scent of flowers from the professionally tended beds.

The decision to return to university studies had been difficult. The History Master's program was a minimum of two years, two years if she worked steadily through with no set backs or delays. Money wasn't the issue, but isolation was. All of her friends were in the city, having left their college days long ago.

However, an advanced degree was necessary if she was to continue her career.

Ending the school year had been difficult. Colleagues were genuinely sorry to see her leave, and her students had organized a farewell party on the last day of school. Clearing her classroom had taken the better part of a week, deciding what to keep, pass on, and what to put into storage. Moving from the small apartment had been easier. She'd had dinner with Meg and her boyfriend Brian, hired a local moving crew to transport her belongings to this new condo, and said goodbye to her old life.

A decade older than most of the students on campus, she'd declined any sort of college housing and instead moved her possessions into this condo. The master's program would take two years, more or less, and it made more sense to her to settle in one place. Only four miles south of campus, The Village at the Pines complex catered to young professionals and seemed a good fit. Though small, the open floor plan gave the illusion of space. On a good day she could even bike to class.

Wish a sigh, Christine went back indoors. There were boxes to unpack.

Exploring her former college town—now a small city, really—took the next several days. Many of the old ratty 1930s-1950s houses the upper level students once had rented for a pittance had been removed to make way for sleek new apartment complexes and a parking garage. Fraternity row looked the same, as did the bars and boutique shops on Campus Corner, the Strip, and Eastside. The campus itself had grown but had kept the same mellow Georgian architectural style that made the university so photogenic. The library bell sounded just the same, its tolling bringing a lump to her throat. The library now offered a coffee bar, e-readers, and free WiFi, as did the Student Union. WiFi hadn't even been a thing when she was enrolled here last. A quick scan of the campus directory showed that the few professors she remembered from her undergrad days had retired or moved on.

The Union bookstore was as enticing as always; the aroma of paper, ink, art supplies, and university-themed apparel at once familiar and intoxicating. Christine consulted her list and quickly selected the few textbooks needed. Bemused, she added a Quiz Clicker to the basket, a small device resembling a Blackberry, for attendance and interactive testing. The high school had used something similar. One t-shirt and shockingly high bill later, Christine exited and climbed the worn marble stairs up to the fourth floor of the Union hopefully, and yes, the Terrace was still there. It had been her favorite vantage spot for the campus, looking over the Quad and the tree-lined sidewalks and lawns that sloped down toward the small lake. Students with book bags lolled on the emerald grass chatting with friends or cuddling with lovers. Nothing there had changed.

Summer classes began on a Monday morning that promised to become very warm later on. As usual, the air-conditioning was set to Arctic Maximum in the buildings, but she'd remembered this and brought a sweater. For all its beauty, there was a touch of melancholy about the campus, purely in her imagination. Perhaps, she reflected, those who'd reminded her of the old saying to make no decisions for a year were correct. But it had been nearly a year since her parents' deaths. She was enrolled in nine hours, three classes, each meeting an hour a day. With a little discipline, any reading or assignments could be completed easily in the afternoons or evenings, leaving plenty of time for explorations, movies, and the like.

And therein lay the problem. On a campus of thirty thousand, Christine Daae didn't know a soul. Her classmates seemed nice enough, but most were married and eager to return home at the end of the day. Back in the city, Christine had often met friends for dinner, movies, shopping, or at local venues, or else had been grading papers until late at night. Meg had frequently called with invitations to arts events. Now her calendar was empty. She'd have to find something to do with all this spare time.


	2. Chapter 2 Back to School

A/N—Wow, I had not expected much of a response to this modern AU premise here, but I'm very appreciative. This is another fairly short "background" chapter. Look for the pace to begin to pick up next week, and a familiar face to appear!

As always, I appreciate feedback, comments, and questions.

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The Measure of a Man

Chapter 2 Back to School

2016\. 2017

 **Task Rabbit**

 **Become a Tasker**

 **When you work with Task Rabbit, you control your schedule, your rates, and the type of work you want to do.**

 **Find the jobs you love and the work/life balance that fits you.**

Christine paused before the jobs board in the Union. Task Rabbit? Whatever was that? Amused, she read the description. Apparently it involved running errands for people, or helping with chores. The pay varied according to the job, and it required a certain amount of verification on both sides. She didn't need a job, but if she had, this might be fun. With a smile, Christine hurried on to class.

The days had quickly fallen into a routine. Wake up, get to the campus, the enforced discipline of homework in the library or Union between classes, time spent in the listening lab, errands on the way home, dinner. During the summer term there were fewer campus activities that might have provided some entertainment. She joined the Astronomy Club one evening for a summer star-gazing session and observatory open house, and the young professor had flirted hopefully. She'd seen a movie or two and wandered through the local historical society museum. Evenings and weekends were still the most difficult parts, for there were few distractions in the small university town. An only child, Christine had been close to her parents and missed the casual phone calls or texts. As the evenings wore on, the silence became increasingly difficult to bear.

It was the easy camaraderie of her school that she missed the most. Theirs had been a closely-knit faculty, supporting each other and genuinely enjoying time spent together. Weekend cookouts, the standard Friday-night "staff meeting" at O'Malley's, baby and wedding showers, attending the students' sports and academic events…all had filled her days. Hopefully the autumn term would bring back the series of concerts, guest speakers, indie films, art shows, plays, and rallies she remembered from years back. Until then, she'd just have to find something to fill the space.

French was the most difficult of her courses. She'd loved the language forever and could read it somewhat, but hearing it, pronouncing words where half the letters were silent? It was proving more difficult than anticipated. If only the Master's program didn't require foreign language proficiency! Though she'd had some French in high school, it had been years ago. Amazing how quickly one forgot even the basics. She pushed the book aside. Maybe she could find a tutor, or listen to movies online, or find music to sing along with. One of Meg's acting friends had sworn by that technique.

* * *

Impatient to see the new apartment, Meg had promised to drive down from the city this afternoon. Christine cast a critical eye around the condo, but it was in relatively good shape. She swept her textbooks off the coffee table and stacked them neatly, added the last couple dishes to the dishwasher, and ran a bleach wipe or two over the bathroom. There was no point in getting any snacks out; at the most Meg would pick over a salad tonight and cast longing looks at the rolls. Iced tea, though, would be nice. She filled the electric kettle and propped her laptop up on the kitchen counter to wait.

An hour later a car horn tooted from below and soon the two women were greeting each other with effusive hugs. Meg voiced her approval of the condo, the landscaping, the covered parking, the security gate upon entry, and the number of young men around the complex's swimming pool, then flung herself dramatically onto the loveseat under the ceiling fan.

"It's ridiculously hot," she moaned. "Why don't people believe in climate change? I'm sure it wasn't this bad when we were kids."

Christine laughed and retrieved the pitcher of tea from the refrigerator, and brought it with two glasses of ice to the coffee table. Meg leaned forward and poured for them both, squeezing a lemon into hers and shuddering as Christine reached for the sugar bowl, stirring in a spoonful.

"White poison," she shook her head. "That stuff will kill you."

"I'll die happy," Christine retorted. "At least I don't make it like Mom did."

"Southern sweet tea. My God, like drinking flavored Karo syrup." Meg smiled. "Speaking of, what have you decided to do with the house, Chris?" She leaned back, crossing her legs, letting one shoe dangle. "Sorry…don't look at the ugly feet," she added automatically.

Christine frowned, curling her legs under on the sofa. "The Jeffries wanted to lease it again so I let them. It lets me put off dealing with it another year. What's going to be hard is the storage unit. You know they locked up all their personal things in one of those heated/cooled secure storage facilities before they left, yes? I'm really not looking forward to having to go through it," she admitted.

Her friend's expressive hazel eyes were sympathetic. "Get someone to go with you when you do. And have an auction house take care of the rest. Just keep what you want and let them do the hard stuff."

"Yeah, I know." She was silent a minute.

"I saw the swimming pool at the community building," Meg said, changing the subject. "Any cute guys there?" She raised her perfect eyebrows suggestively and Christine laughed.

"I've no idea…I haven't been brave enough to go down there yet. I need a new suit before I can even think of it."

"Girl, we will take you shopping this afternoon," Meg smiled wickedly. "What about classes?"

"They're going well, but Statistics is just as evil as I remembered it and French is killing me."

Meg rolled her eyes in exasperation. "No no, are there cute guys in your classes?"

Christine took a sip of her tea. "Not really. Everyone's mostly married, you know. Stat's full of business types, French has a bunch of kids in it, and Euro is mostly teachers like me. If I run into any cute guys, though, I'll let you know. How's your own love life?"

"That new dancer, Paul, has a boyfriend…too bad, he's so gorgeous and moves like that guy in the Hozier video, you know the one I mean. Simply gorgeous." She sighed.

"What about Brian?" Brian, Meg's long-suffering boyfriend, had asked her to marry him at least four times by Christine's count. Meg adored him but was not ready to settle down. He was seemingly willing to wait, though.

"He's in Alaska right now with his buddies, on some extended backpacking / hiking trip. They'll probably all get eaten by a bear," she said gloomily.

"Ah," Christine grinned and Meg glared.

"Don't you "ah" me, girl. We need to find you a man."

"Someday. Don't push it, Meg. It'll happen when it happens."

They spent the afternoon shopping. The university town still held onto its Main Street, a tree-lined avenue boasting boutique shops, a coffee bar, tearoom, antiques stores, a bookstore, high-end apparel, pizza spots, and delis. Two hours of browsing ended with several purchases, Meg obsessing over a pair of shoes and Christine finally choosing a dark royal blue one-piece swimsuit and coordinating cover-up. Meg was also able to talk her into a watercolor print sundress and white sandals, with a matching shrug, and pronounced her ready for the Riviera. Gathering their bags, they'd piled into Meg's tiny Fiat and returned to Christine's condo for dinner, simple Caesar salads with grilled chicken, rolls, strawberries, and iced tea.

Meg dipped the tines of her fork into the dressing before spearing a bite. "This is so good, and perfect for the weather. I'm glad you can cook. Thank God Brian can cook, or I'd starve."

Christine laughed. Meg hadn't a domestic bone in her body, but Brian didn't care. He could grill steaks as easily as he could whip up a cake from years as a bachelor. He'd make some girl a perfect husband; Christine just hoped her friend would realize it before some other woman did.

They'd sat talking on the deck for another hour before Meg regretfully rose to leave, wanting to make the nearly two hours' drive east before dark. The condo was quiet after her departure. Christine wandered aimlessly, putting dishes away and fluffing the sofa pillows. There was nothing on TV and all of her favorite internet sites were idle. Settling on the sofa, she reached for the remote. Maybe she could find a movie on Netflix.

* * *

.

* * *

The curtains were closed against the fading sky. Between them on the table sat a bucket of melting ice and two bottles whose contents had steadily lowered across the passing hours. The remains of a good supper lay ignored in the kitchen.

Long thin fingers reached out and tipped over the black king. "Mate."

The visitor emptied his glass and leaned back in his chair. "That's it, then. A good game."

"As always."

He held up the nearly empty bottle. "I shall regret this come morning," he said mournfully.

"Can you drive?"

"Of course. I won the game, did I not?" He rose unsteadily to his feet, grasping the back of the chair.

His host sighed. "I let you win. How many fingers?" He held up a closed fist.

"You always say that."

"It's true. How many?"

The Iranian blinked owlishly at the pale hand. "Perhaps I had best stay here."

"You know the way."

He nodded and began the slow ascent across the tilting floor toward the stairwell, when the voice behind him spoke. "Make sure you remove your shoes before you ruin another good pair of bed sheets."

Drawing himself up with dignity, the visitor leaned against the wall and with difficulty toed off both black leather oxfords, leaving them lying sideways. "There," he said in triumph, and in his stocking feet carefully turned, treading up the stairs toward the guest room.

In the darkened living room below, the remaining man swallowed the last of his scotch, reflecting on the date that had lain unspoken between them all night. Distraction from the memories was all he could provide, but perhaps it had been enough. Standing awkwardly he balanced on the stiff leg, sighed and turned off the remaining lamp.

* * *

Thank you for reading! Next week—Christine meets a handsome young man


	3. Chapter 3 Date Night

A/N—Thanks to all who left reviews last week! You make my day. Answering questions-yes, that was Erik and the Persian. Yes, we'll see a fair amount of Meg, even though she lives in a different city. A girl has to have her BFF, right? Nope, sorry, Brian's not available. He is a great guy and hopes Meg will come to her senses one of these days.

As always, I appreciate feedback, comments, and questions. Now, on to the story...

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The Measure of a Man

Chapter 3 Date Night

2016\. 2017

"Hey, is this seat taken?"

Surprised, Christine looked up from her Stat assignment and rapidly grabbed her book bag, clearing the chair. "Oh no, it's not. Sorry; I didn't realize it had gotten so crowded in here."

"Thanks!" he said, and easily swung his own bag down to the floor, dropping into the seat. She watched him from under her eyelashes. Tall, friendly blue eyes, wheat gold hair cut by a stylist, with that tanned-and-healthy outdoors look to him. Meg would definitely put him in the "cute guy" category, she thought with amusement, and he returned her tentative glance with a sunny smile and held out a hand.

"Hi. I'm Raoul. Thanks for letting me use your table!" he grinned.

"Christine. And no prob."

"What are you working on?" He gestured at the pile of books, tablet, and notepad.

"Statistics. I hate it; it's so pointless. But I have to have it," she said with a sigh, and leaned back.

Raoul's blue eyes swept her figure appraisingly. Damn, she was fine, soft curves in a clinging sweater, good legs, pretty face…tall, too, he'd bet, from the way she sat. Even white teeth flashed him a shy smile from an oval face, and her blue eyes sparkled.

"Stat's a necessary evil," he said gravely. "Can't analyze business without it."

She smiled. "Is that what you do? Analyze business?"

"Not yet, " he said easily. "But hopefully soon. Got to get this MBA out of the way first."

"I'm in the Master's program too, MA in History. I'm a teacher in real life."

He grinned again. "Thought you looked older than the usual kids."

"Hey now, never tell a woman she looks older!" Christine protested, laughing.

He gave her a lazy warm smile, definitely flirting. "Oh, I meant it nicely. Will you keep an eye on my stuff while I get some lunch?"

"Sure." She watched his broad shoulders as he maneuvered his way across the crowded floor of the commons across to the food court. _Definitely cute, probably lifts weights. But an MBA…can't be a dumb jock, I hope. Meg would love him,_ she thought.

The university food court was a favorite place for the students to gather between classes. It occupied most of the first floor of the Student Union in the center of campus, and was usually busy this time of day. The WiFi signal was strong here, and an assortment of fast food, deli, and snack bar restaurants supplied the needed calories and caffeine to keep the student body functioning. There were a variety of tables and chairs in the central area, as well as slouchy sofas and chairs in the adjoining lounge. A glass elevator to the second floor connected with hallways leading off to the various student services offices. A piano, recharging stations, and wide-screen TV were available, and a large outdoor dining area was always crowded this time of day with the students eating outside while the weather lasted.

She'd completed two more problems by the time he returned, balancing a tray.

"Sorry. Long lines. Have you eaten?" he asked and she nodded.

"Yes. I have a 1:00, have to eat early."

"Too bad. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow, Ms. Christine?" He smiled, looking utterly charming.

She slid everything into the book bag. "Maybe so." She smiled back. "I'll look for you."

"I'll be here." He stood as she pushed back the chair. "Later."

"See you."

Over the next few days, Raoul just happened to run into her at the food court on multiple occasions. They fell into the habit of eating lunch together and she learned he had been working for a family business since graduating with his BS. He had an older brother who had taken over most of the day-to-day operations of the company from their father, who was wanting to retire. Philippe had encouraged Raoul to pursue his MBA before their father stepped down completely.

"It's been crazy," he admitted, swirling fries into ketchup, drawing patterns in the red sauce. "He's had a couple heart attacks and my mom just wants him to take it easy before something bad happens. You know?"

"I know," she said softly, and he blanched. "Oh hey, Christine, I'm sorry." He leaned across the table and took her hand. "That was stupid of me."

She blinked back tears and shook her head, squeezing his fingers. "It's ok. It's been more than a year, you know, since the accident. You'd think I'd get my act together one of these days, but no. It's little things that get me. Like, I couldn't even watch television for a while, because every time I saw a commercial with a winding mountain road, or an RV, or something, I just lost it."

Raoul nodded, awkwardly patting her hand. "Yeah…that would be tough. At least it was quick, though, right?"

"They said so." She tried not to imagine the terror her parents must have felt as the rental RV swerved and went over the edge, brakeless and falling. "They were together, at least, on their anniversary trip, trying to see all fifty states. It had been their dream for so long, and when Dad retired Mom did too. She was a nurse, he was a geologist. So," she wiped her wet eyes with a napkin, "I think your mom is smart to get your dad to slow down. You just never know."

He studied her face, lowered to her plate for a long minute. There had been several women in his past, and his sisters and mother were always trying to get him hooked up with "a nice girl." Christine was a nice girl, too…sweet and smart and funny, and attractive. She seemed to like him. He took a deep breath.

"What are you doing tonight? We could go do something if you, you know, wanted to."

She looked up, surprised. "OK. Like what?"

He gestured at the scrolling marquee on the wall. "Well, there is an indie movie in the Little Theatre tonight…and a chamber music recital at the Bailey Center…and a lecture on international relations by some visiting politician in Reed Hall. Or we could go bowling or out to dinner…or just hang out somewhere. Drive around the lake. Whatever you wanted to do."

She felt a flutter in her stomach. He was asking her out. Awesomeness. That dress Meg had forced her to buy might just come in handy. "Sure, I'd love to. Why don't you give me a call later and we'll figure something out?"

His blue eyes smiled into hers. "Deal. What's your number?"

* * *

They ended up at the little ten-pin bowling alley in the bottom level of the Student Union. It was a popular place for students, known for its pizza and burgers, old-fashioned jukeboxes, and was one of the few places on campus one could buy beer. Raoul ordered a Foster's and Christine a soda, put in their pizza order, and took their drinks over to lane 14.

"I am really terrible at this," Raoul confessed, pulling off a shoe and wiggling his toes. "Be warned, I'll probably throw the ball into the next lane."

"I'm not bad," Christine admitted. "Dad loved to bowl and we used to go all the time. He was even on a league a few times."

Raoul grinned and raked a hand through his dark blond hair. "Great. So I'm doomed. You're going to mop the floor with me."

She arched an eyebrow and grinned back. "Not a sore loser, are you?"

He threw back his head and laughed. "Not a chance. I've already won—I'm here with the prettiest girl on campus."

The pizza arrived, hot and delicious, with plenty of napkins so the heavy bowling balls didn't slip in greasy fingers. They played three games, with Christine easily winning each, then put their real shoes back on and returned the rental shoes and balls back to the main desk.

The campus was active this night, with students returning from evening classes and warm yellow light spilling from the buildings. They wandered aimlessly, feeding pizza crusts to the greedy ducks on the pond and ending sitting cross-legged by the library's huge fountains, their conversation ranging from sports to religion to childhood experiences. In the semi-darkness it was easy to speak, their voices pitched softly in the twilight. Raoul leaned back against the warm brick of the library wall, one leg drawn up and his elbow resting on it, watching the woman across from him, her face animated and hands gesturing with an anecdote from the previous day's history class discussion. It had been a long time since anyone had captured his interest so quickly.

Almost two hours later the two found themselves ending up down on the Strip at the Dairy Barn, an establishment old as the campus itself and a perennial favorite of students and townies both. Raoul leaned forward in his chair, idly stirring the remains of an enormous sundae. "I had a good time tonight, Ms Chris," he said seriously. "Wouldn't mind repeating it again soon."

Christine tucked a stray curl behind one ear. "Same, homework permitting. I had fun."

"Saturday, maybe, if you don't have plans? We could catch a movie or go try the new climbing wall at the sports center, or whatever you wanted to do."

Dark blue eyes smiled at him. "I'd like that."

* * *

Back in the dressing room, Meg stretched luxuriously and shook her head, blond curls cascading down her bare shoulders. With a swift, practiced move she swept them up into a simple twist and pulled a baggy pink sweatshirt over her leotard. Evening practice over, she wiggled her toes in relief and shoved her battered feet into soft woolly socks and loose sneakers. Winding the strap of her ballet bag around her shoulder the tired dancer headed downstairs.

Various cast and crewmembers called a cheery goodnight as she passed through the backstage and out a side door, remote in hand. Her little red Fiat Spider beeped a cheerful welcome from under the parking lot floodlights. Brian should be home tonight, she thought with anticipation and tossed her dance bag into the back seat.

Within minutes she was pulling out onto the expressway heading for home. The phone chirped, indicating Bluetooth was active. "Call Brian," she ordered it.

"Hey," his warm voice filled the little car's speakers. "Done for the night?"

"Yes, heading home. Want to meet me somewhere?"

"Your place or mine? Or dinner?"

"Mine? I'll buy if you cook."

He laughed. "Isn't that the usual offer? How about a better one?"

She grinned despite the traffic. "I'll make it worth your while. I promise."

"Oh, I'm sure. How does homemade spaghetti and salad sound?"

"Wonderful. I could eat a horse."

"If you eat two bites I'll be happy. Come replace those carbs you burned off, ok?"

"Yes, darling. See you soon!"

Fifteen minutes later Meg pulled in to the small apartment complex where she lived. The brick and wrought-iron buildings had a retro-60's look to them and were part of the planned new developments in one of the urban restoration areas of the city. Twenty-four units in two levels surrounded a pool and commons area, set in a rectangle. The flats were secure and mercifully near the arts district, abounding with quirky shops, fusion restaurants, and galleries. Best of all, enclosed parking was included in the monthly price. She dashed up the flight of stairs and quickly tidied the small flat. Brian arrived minutes later, bearing two bags of groceries. She let him in and flung both arms around his neck. Bags slid to the floor as they spent a pleasant few minutes before reluctantly pulling apart.

"Go sit," he ordered, "and relax. I'll have dinner ready in a bit."

"I think I'll shower first," she responded, "if you're ok with that."

"Shoo, go." He waved her away. "Dinner's under control."

He'd lowered the lighting when she emerged, pink-cheeked and toweling her long blond hair dry. Candles and two glasses of wine waited on the dining table, and he kissed her again on the cheek as he passed by, bearing a bowl of salad and plates. He'd closed the draperies across the huge glass living room windows and found a light jazz station on the stereo. Meg grabbed forks and napkins, setting the table swiftly as Brian brought the platter of steaming garlicky pasta to the table.

"That was delicious," she sighed later, as they carried their glasses to the low coffee table and settled on the sofa. Meg scooted across the leather seat, leaning against Brian's broad chest and stretched out her long bare legs. "The dishes can wait a bit." His arms pulled her closer and Meg raised her face, a soft smile on her lips. A moment later her cell phone buzzed, demanding attention, and Brian groaned.

"Christine," she mouthed, and he nodded, resigned, and kissed the top of her head instead, reaching for the TV remote.

"Meg," said the voice on the line, "Guess what? I think I might have met somebody…"

* * *

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I hope you enjoyed this update. :) Please leave a comment or review? Up next week, we meet another familiar face.


	4. Chapter 4 Errands

**A/N** —Welcome to all of the new story followers! I hope you'll continue to enjoy TMoaM and will leave a comment letting me know what you like about it!

Answering questions—Raoul is a year or so older than Christine, so he's 29-30 here, and yes, very charming and handsome. He's just not ever met a girl he likes well enough to settle down with…yet.

Thanks so much for your comments on this chapter. I'll admit to being just a little unsure as to whether anyone was going to like this modern AU and I've been rather worried about the high number of views, but few comments there for a while.

As always, I appreciate feedback, comments, and questions. Please please review!

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chapter 4 Errands

2016\. 2017

The ad on the Student Union board for Task Rabbit caught her eye again. Seeing Raoul had definitely taken up a few more of her hours each week, but there were still long periods of time where she found herself idly surfing the internet or wandering aimlessly through the condo. Pulling out her phone, Christine snapped a photo of the ad. She might give them a call. An hour a day wouldn't be bad.

Most of the money from the lawsuit settlement was safely locked up in an IRA, waiting for retirement of her own someday, with an annuity providing more than enough for living expenses. She'd left sufficient funds in the checking and savings accounts to finance her master's degree, but years spent on a teacher's salary had given Christine an ingrained sense of financial insecurity. Task Rabbit wouldn't pay much, she mused, but it would feel good to be earning something.

The following afternoon Christine swung by the Task Rabbit office, a small store front in a strip shopping center just southwest of the campus and dropped off her updated CV and background check information. The initial interview went smoothly and the company gave her a call back just a few days later. Her first few assignments were minor, easily accomplished. She picked up theater tickets and delivered them, took parcels out to the post office, dropped off dry-cleaning, and helped tie myriad colorful balloons along a rural road in preparation for a child's birthday party. It was all fun, and she was getting to know sections of the city that were entirely new, built after her time in school there.

One afternoon Christine checked in to find a grocery delivery request. The receptionist waved the slip cheerfully, giving her the assignment. "You'll like this one. Dr. Valerius is this lovely old lady, retired now from the university. Used to teach literature, I think. She doesn't get out much these days, hates the heat and the cold. She'll call in a grocery order to the store. They'll shop for her, put it on her account, then you'll go there and bring the groceries to her house. Easy peasy." She handed the address to Christine.

The house was easy to find, a white two-story on a corner lot with a wide, old-fashioned porch and large fenced garden. Pots of scarlet geraniums flanked the stairs, and a porch swing swayed gently in the slight breeze. Martha Valerius proved to be every bit as charming as the receptionist had promised. A neatly dressed older woman with white hair and faded blue eyes, she maintained a firmly upright posture but walked with assistance. "It's not so easy to get around after that dratted hip, my dear," she said, holding the door open as Christine staggered in with the bags. "I'm sure I could do it, but the walker is such a nuisance and my son fusses at me so if I don't use the thing. Do come on in."

Her house was clean, bright, and cheery. Classical music played somewhere in the background and an orange cat opened sleepy eyes from the sunbeam where it dozed. The old lady gently prodded it with her cane. "Move along, Dez, and let the girl through."

"Dez?" Christine asked, lowering the plastic sacks to the kitchen counter.

"Desdemona. From _Othello_. My late husband always insisted on Shakespearean names for our animals. Said a cat should have a name to be proud of."

Christine laughed. "I've read TS Eliot, too. I approve." She gestured at the groceries. "Shall I help you put them away? I've plenty of time."

The old lady looked delighted. "Yes, please. It would be a great help. I'll make us some lemonade, if that's ok."

Christine smiled to herself. Martha Valerius was not the first older person she'd run errands for who seized the opportunity for conversation.

They sat on the porch swing chatting afterwards. A ceiling fan turned lazily overhead. Christine admired the flowerbeds and accepted the gift of a freshly-picked tomato and cucumber from the garden. "There are more of them than I can eat, dear, and I refuse to heat the kitchen up to do any canning," she said, then added with a twinkle in her eyes, "I used to enter my produce in the country fair, but it's time to let the younger people win," and Christine laughed.

The Doctors Valerius had both been employed by the university in years past. Her late husband, she informed Christine, had been in the Music department, whereas she had taught English literature. Theirs had been a long and happy union, producing a son and daughter, both of whom lived out of state now. They had retired more than ten years ago, but he had died of a sudden aneurysm only three years later. She mourned him deeply, but had bravely moved forward.

"I try to stay busy," she explained. "I help out with the county election board, sing in the choir, and volunteer with the campus outreach group." She took a last sip of the lemonade. "But I do avoid the heat of the day whenever possible. It's not good for my heart, the doctor says. I appreciate you bringing me out those groceries so much, my dear." She rose carefully to her feet, and Christine replaced the lemonade glass on the tray. "I like you, young lady, and I do hope you'll come visit me again. I've enjoyed talking with you."

Impulsively, Christine leaned over and gave the older woman a quick hug. "Thank you so much. I've enjoyed visiting with you too, and I will." She refused a tip and waved cheerily on her way back down to the car. "You take care, Dr. V!"

"Thank you, my dear, you too."

Task Rabbit had been a good idea, Christine reflected. She was making friends.

* * *

"Hey, Chris! Wait up!" the voice puffed behind her, and Christine turned, hopefully. She'd spent the better part of the last two hours ensconced in the library's Reserved Reading Room, taking notes over primary source texts in preparation for the next day's Euro class. Raoul jogged up next to her, his lively blue eyes and easy grin a welcome sight. He fell into step beside her on the sidewalk.

"Hi yourself. Where are you heading?"

He raised a gym bag. "The rec center. I'm in the racquetball league, have another game here in a bit. You want to come watch? I'm sure I'd play better with you there cheering me on." His eyes twinkled roguishly.

Christine pretended to give it some thought, but her homework was done and there was nothing on the evening agenda. "Sure!"

Raoul grinned. "Awesome. We can go get something to eat afterwards, if you'd like. I'm always starving after a game."

The campus recreation center was only a ten-minute walk, out on the NW part of the campus. The racquetball courts were built on the side of a hill, so that players were in courts below and observers could sit in the stands at ground level. Christine settled into a plastic chair and dropped her backpack beside her, leaning over the railing. A few minutes later Raoul and a brown-haired young man entered the court. He turned and waved up at her, then shook hands with the other player. Raoul covered the end of his racket and spun it several times. "M or W?"

"W"

He uncovered the endcap. "W. You serve." The other young man nodded and walked to the far court, bouncing a small blue ball.

It was like watching an Olympic match. Both young men were highly athletic, jumping for and slamming the ball, their shoes squeaking and sliding on the hardwood floor. A few minutes into the game, a blond girl came to sit a few seats away and watched the competition intently. Christine smiled at her and the girl nodded back but did not speak.

Three games out of five later, Raoul was waving happily up at the stands, mopping his face with a towel and taking long drags on his water bottle. He jogged up the stairs, dripping sweat and calling to her, "I'll meet you in the lobby in a bit, ok? I've got to get a real fast shower."

Christine nodded and picked up her bag, grateful to be heading back to the air-conditioned lobby. The courts area was so humid she knew her hair must be a frizzy mess. She passed Raoul's opponent, who was talking animatedly to the blond girl, and headed out into the enormous lobby.

The campus recreation center was a huge facility, with a wide variety of activities and classes. The bulletin board advertised everything from beginning adult ballet to martial arts, weight lifting, competitive tennis, and cross-training. Flyers announced that the outdoors club was recruiting people for a backpacking expedition, and a group of Juniors were asking hopefully if anyone was interested in joining a rowing team. Christine read it all with interest as she waited, and only fifteen minutes later, Raoul appeared, jogging up the stairs, looking pleased with himself and rather dashing in a blue polo and white shorts that showed off his tanned and muscular legs.

"That was fast," she commented as he approached, and he grinned.

"Practice." He glanced up at the clock. "You interested in getting some dinner? My treat."

"Sure. Where?"

"Granny's Kitchen? You know, out east of town on the highway? Rumor has it they have the best chicken-fried steaks, and I could eat an entire cow about now."

Christine giggled, flicking her long braid over her shoulder and hitched up her heavy backpack as they started up the stairs. "Sounds good, as long as you're buying the cow. I don't think I've ever been there."

Raoul reached out and took her backpack over her protests and easily swung it across his shoulder. "Awesome. I'm in the commuter lot just up the hill so we can take my car." He gave her a sudden grin and a wink. "Stick with me and I'll show you all sorts of new things."

* * *

He leaned back from the keyboard, cracking the knuckles of his abused hands, stiff and aching but satisfied. The notes were there, penned to the paper, unable to escape and out of his head, no longer swirling about in voices calling to each other, point and counterpoint, melody and harmony, base and treble, twining about each other to wake him in the middle of the middle demanding attention. Who knows, perhaps this one would even sell as the others had. He grimaced, straightening. He knew well the publisher had only looked at those first pieces because of the name, but so be it. The tactic had worked; the pieces sold and sold well.

Slightly light-headed, he stumbled to the kitchen, flicking on the light and blearily stared into the refrigerator. _You ought to listen to your doctor and eat something every now and then_ , came Khan's dry voice. Empty shelves, bereft of even the most desiccated of take-away greeted him. With a snarl he slammed the door shut and glared into the freezer, as if it were the fault of the shining stainless-steel unit. Two antiquated microwave meals sat forlornly, bought in the vain hope they might someday be consumed.

He leaned against the counter. When had he last eaten? He rubbed one hand across his face feeling the roughness of stubble, and raked thin, ink-stained fingers through his dark and messy hair, rumpling it further. Coffee. He needed coffee. He reached for the glass carafe by the sink and filled the Jura machine. Caffeine would at least clear the cobwebs out of his head.

The machine rumbled to itself, scalding water hissing through metal pipes, preparing to stream the hot beverage that staved off sleep for a while longer. The house air-conditioning kicked on and he gave a glance toward the piano, hearing the sibilant sound of messy sheets sliding from the lid and cascading onto the floor. No matter, they could stay until tomorrow. He needed a break from composing to be able to read and edit tomorrow with a fresh set of eyes.

Steaming cup in hand, he gave one more glance toward the uncooperative refrigerator and went downstairs one step at a time. The touch of a button opened automatic blinds, revealing an empty covered stone terrace and wide field beyond. Night was falling, the edges of the forest already blurred in darkness, the colors blending into shades of grey as the moon crept over the tops of the distant trees. He contemplated the view for a minute, then turned to the wall of cabinets, adding a dollop of cognac to the mug and took a long swallow.

It was too early for sleep, though his body begged for rest. He knew from bitter experience he'd only awaken in the dark hours and stare at the ceiling until dawn. He'd check on the progress of his latest project, perhaps listen to NPR…when had he paid attention last to the news?…and then maybe a shower and bed.

* * *

Next week…it's the man you've all been waiting for…pleasant as ever.


	5. Chapter 5 A Delivery and a Date

**A/N** —A huge thanks needs to go to the readers who have been patiently following and reviewing. Honestly, you're the only reason I'm still posting this story. Thank you so much for the encouragement, questions, and just for letting me know someone is interested.

Answering questions—Yes, Erik and Christine do finally meet in this chapter, but it's very brief. You all know I like a slow build up, and I'm trying to keep this a more realistic version of the story since it's a modern AU. We're only a few weeks in on the story time line. Hang in there!

As always, I appreciate feedback, comments, and questions. Please please eave a comment!

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chapter 5 A Delivery and a Date

2016\. 2017

Erik regarded the cane with bitterness as he swung it in step. His leg ached abominably, probably due to the recent weather change. He eased his body down into the Eames chair, carefully elevating the painful appendage. It would never be right again, he feared; a spiral fracture was not an easy breakage to heal at any age. At least there was no swelling today.

He leaned his head back against the chair rest and gave the ceiling a baleful look. God only knew how long it would be until he could drive a car again. In the meantime, he was dependent, and how he loathed being dependent, on various forms of outside help.

* * *

"I've saved one for you," the receptionist called out as Christine came through the door that afternoon, holding out the yellow slip between two fingers. "It's your favorite place."

Christine laughed. It had become somewhat of a standing joke that she would always choose to take the errands from that unknown employer. She glanced at the slip. Dr. Erik Martin, 1520 Jefferson Way, The Grove. All of the streets in that addition were named for presidents. As for him, no one knew if he was a medical doctor or a PhD type doctor.

 _Swiss Cleaners this time,_ she noted. Odd, usually her errands consisted of collecting rather large parcels from the post office or from the house. "Weird," she murmured aloud.

The receptionist, Shauna, raised an eyebrow. "Honey, that whole setup is weird. He communicates only by email, never comes in, pays the bill electronically. The guy is a recluse."

Christine leaned on the counter, curious. "Have you ever talked to him on the phone?"

"Once," she said with a grimace. "Nearly snapped my head off. Thoroughly unpleasant. But whatever…he pays the bills on time. I'm glad you don't mind going out there."

Christine smiled. "I don't mind. It's fairly close to home. Thanks!" With a wave she departed.

The cleaner handed her a large bag with relief. "I'm glad you've come for this. They've been here for weeks. We finally called and got in touch with him and that man said he'd forgotten all about them. What kind of a person forgets this many shirts?" Shaking his head, he passed her the hanger loops.

Half a dozen pinpoint oxford shirts, all white, starched and pressed, hung next to two suits. Even with her relative unfamiliarity with men's clothing, Christine could tell the quality of these garments. The black and dark grey suits were of fine wool, exquisitely tailored, but oddly proportioned. Judging from the length of sleeves and pants, the items belonged to a very tall, thin man. Holding them carefully, she left the store and hung the garments in the back of her car.

The simple truth was, the mysterious employer intrigued her. The house itself was located roughly three miles south of her condo, on the very edges of the city limits. Though in a gated community, the long meandering driveway had its own rolling gate across the street end, and the pass code was different with every visit. The house itself was hidden by a copse of trees and a slight swell of lawn, almost completely invisible from the road until one followed the curving drive. It sat on a cul-de-sac with empty wooded lots to either side, affording a truly magnificent amount of privacy. Behind the house, the land dipped down toward FBLM property. If there was a deck or patio, the owner surely had a stunning view, yet no one ever seemed to be home.

Her normal procedure was to place any parcels on the carved wooden bench beside the door, then ring the bell and leave. When summoned to the house, anything destined for the post office would be waiting on the bench, already neatly labeled and postage applied. He must have a meter inside, she assumed. The labels themselves were impersonal, computer printed, and addressed to various names across the United States. Once or twice there had been foreign addresses.

Christine parked the car and hopped out, gathering the garment bag from the hook in the back. The wind caught and pulled at the plastic wrapping as she approached the house. As usual the blinds were tightly closed. There were no flowers, no decorative wreath on the door. The exterior of the house was austere and entirely impersonal.

After a moment's thought, she rang the doorbell, listening to the unusual melodic chimes. After a minute a light on the polished brass speaker to the right of the door frame lit, and voice snapped. "Yes?"

She leaned forward toward the grill. "I have your dry cleaning. It's so windy out here today…I didn't want to leave it on the bench. Would you like to take it?"

There was a pause, and then an answer. "No. Just leave it and go."

Though curt, it was the most beautiful voice she'd ever heard.

* * *

The doorbell chimes rang through the house and Erik struggled to his feet, cursing, and stumbled to the door. He hit the camera button with rather more force than necessary. It was that girl again, the one from the errand service. He recognized the dark blue Honda CRV in the driveway. She stood there awkwardly, holding his suits. Today she wore a soft pink blouse and blue jeans, with white sneakers, her long brown hair caught up in a jaunty ponytail. Up close on the camera, he was forced to revise her age. She was older than he'd previously thought, perhaps 10-12 years his junior, not a young student at all. He wondered briefly why someone her age was working such a job.

"Yes?" he snapped.

She leaned forward, toward the grill. "I have your dry cleaning. It's so windy out here today…I didn't want to leave it on the bench. Would you like to take it?"

Did she expect him to open the door and take it from her? "No. Just leave it and go." He watched as she frowned, clearly unwilling to just leave his suits folded on the bench. She stepped back, looking around, and then nodded. Out of camera range, he could not see what she did, but after a moment she came back into view, walking gracefully back to her car, hands empty.

He waited until the gate system at the end of the driveway beeped to tell him the car was gone before opening the door. She'd found a slender bracket on one of the porch lights and had hung his bag from it. A clever idea, he thought, and awkwardly stepped out the door. Trying to hold the flapping dry cleaning bag with one hand, the cane with the other, and managing the door was awkward, difficult, and painful. Perhaps he should have just let her hand him the bag. No, _that_ was a foolish idea.

* * *

Mid-terms were approaching with the speed of a tsunami, and Christine felt a wave of sympathy for her former students. Being on the other side of the desk every once is a while was a good thing, she reflected, and probably all teachers ought to experience it. She had a paper due in Euro and a test in French coming up. The summer session was halfway over.

She was seeing Raoul tonight for dinner and possible TV re-runs watching. Both, it seemed, were _Sherlock_ addicts. They planned to meet at Diablo's, the home of "sinfully good" pizza and pasta, a student favorite. She arrived first, selected a booth, and a minute later Raoul arrived in a foul mood, as Philippe had called while he was getting dressed.

"He gives me this routine, the 'I'm doing this all for you while you're off having fun' bit and I'm sick of hearing about it. Christ, I'm twenty-nine years old. It's not as if I'm running around with the frat boys getting plastered every night. An MBA isn't easy," he groused and she gave him a sympathetic look. "Of course, _he_ finished his MBA in a year and half, because he's some sort of a frickin' supercomputer instead of human. Everything always comes so easily for him." He glared down into his beer.

"He sounds hard to live up to," Christine mused, and Raoul laughed mirthlessly.

"Oh, you have no idea. Eagle Scout by fifteen. Student Council president. The cutest girlfriends. First string soccer team. Valedictorian. Medals at music competitions. Never in trouble. Hell, he even passed his driver's test on the first try. Me, I always felt like second place behind him. Never good enough, you know? And I know I'm not stupid…it's just that I have to work for everything and he seemed to have this magic touch where it came so easily. Dad even used to take him golfing with his business partners." He leaned back against the booth, his eyes tired.

Christine extended her hand and he twined his fingers in hers. "Thanks, Chris. At least you think I'm awesome, right?" he teased.

"Oh yes," she said solemnly. "Wipe your mouth. You have pizza sauce on your cheek."

Raoul threw back his head and laughed.

They went back to his apartment and watched television for an hour or two, then he walked her out to her car. "Thanks, Chris, for putting up with me tonight. Sorry I was in such a crappy mood."

"Hey, family happens," she shrugged. "Don't worry about it."

He nodded. "When will I see you again?"

She frowned, leaning on the hood. "I don't know. The rest of this week is crazy. I've got a study group tomorrow night for French, and the TA says he'll be open for a Stat review. And Euro's a mess; I'm so far behind on that paper. Then mid-terms, of course."

"You should chill on that job for a while," he advised. "Just until you get caught up."

Christine rubbed her face tiredly. "Yeah, probably so, but I enjoy it. It's cool meeting people and seeing new parts of the city. It's so different from when I lived here last."

Bashfully, Raoul leaned over and gave her an awkward kiss on the cheek, his hand lingering for a moment on her back. "I guess it's goodnight, then. Study hard, Ms. Chris."

She put her arms around him and hugged him tightly. "You too, ok?"

She probably ought to take a few less errands this week, Christine reflected on the way home. Just until mid terms were over. But Dr. Valerius was always so happy to see her, and she felt a sense of responsibility to check up on the elderly lady in this heat.

And Raoul…he was the best thing that had happened to her in a long time. There was something steady and reassuring about him, a solid sense of calm acceptance, strength, and compassion. She'd never heard him be judgmental or cruel, and that was a refreshing change from a few of her prior dating experiences. No, she'd make time for Raoul as well.

* * *

Slowly, gingerly, Erik navigated his way down the stairs to the basement. Not really a basement, he mentally amended, but the lower level. The house was built on a hill so the lower level was actually the ground floor. There were four rooms downstairs, his workshop, the lower living room, a bathroom, and one smaller room that was closed off, unfurnished, used for storage.

The stairs ended in a wide open space, a "game room" as the estate agent had described it. It too was sparsely furnished. Another single Eames chair was arranged where one could sit and look out over the valley. There was a kitchenette that housed only tea and coffee supplies, and a well-stocked liquor cabinet. A truly magnificent sound system, enclosed in cabinets, beckoned, and he spent a pleasant few minutes arranging music to work by.

The workshop was his pride and joy. Benches ran three-quarters of the way around the walls with directive lighting and specialty tools, clamps, vises, a sink, and a dehumidifier. A well-stocked library of reference books and a bank of supply cabinets awaited whatever needs he might have, and a tall rolling chair completed the room.

Carefully he walked to the chair and sat, grateful to take the strain off his leg, and rolled to the workbench. Lying on the padded mat was his current project, a formerly graceful viola, now in pieces. It might never have the sound quality it had once possessed, but the silent man who leaned over it had garnered somewhat of a reputation in recent years as an expert in the repair of damaged instruments. If he could not fix it, then it could not be done.

Long bony hands cradled the shattered pieces tenderly. The seams had dried well from his previous restoration work. Perhaps today more progress could be made. As the strains of Ravel's _Pavane_ _pour une infante défunte_ floated across the room, he reached for the glue pot, humming along with the music.

* * *

The fourth floor library lounge was one of her favorite spots on campus, Christine mused, as she carefully balanced laptop, backpack, plate, and mug on her way over to one of the high-backed wooden booths. In her day this area had been one of the many sections of book stacks, but electronic material was slowly rendering the shelves of old volumes, with their familiar, comfortable aroma of old paper, leather, and ink, obsolete. She hated the thought; books had been an invaluable companion for the lonely, only child of two older parents. But, she had to admit, the tablet was much easier to carry around.

Christine settled into her favorite booth overlooking the quad, spreading reference materials, notepad, pencil, tea, and butterscotch brownie plate within reach, and settled in for an evening of dedicated term paper writing.

* * *

Alone in the darkening living room, he lifted the violin to his chin and raised the bow, drawing it like a caress across the strings. The soothing tones of Brahms flowed effortlessly through the room as the shadows lengthened. The face of the girl intruded upon his thoughts and he frowned. What had she to do with anything? He didn't even know her name. Forcing himself to focus, Erik turned back to the window.

* * *

.

Thank you for reading! How do you like it so far? Fear not, Erik and Christine will begin to have many more encounters. He's being his reclusive self at the moment, not wanting anyone to see him or his problems. We all know how well that's going to work out, though...

~R


	6. Chapter 6 Groceries, Gossip, and a Kiss

**A/N** —You all have been super kind with reviews this week, and I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart. Don't worry, Nadir does show up again, as does Dr. Valerius. It's a small college town, after all.

As always, I appreciate feedback, comments, and questions. Please please leave a review and let me know what you t hink!

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chapter 6 Groceries, Gossip, and a Kiss

2016\. 2017

Gratefully, Christine tossed the book bag into the backseat of her CRV. Mid-terms were over, the evil Euro paper was both printed out and submitted online. The three-day 4th of July holiday weekend awaited, and Meg had promised to come visit on Sunday, after the _Red, White, and Blue Spectacular!_ show, an annual combination of the Ballet and Philharmonic. The show culminated with a fantastic fireworks display downtown and Christine was sorely tempted to go see it, but parking was almost always a nightmare, and she was curious as to the local events here. There were promises of sales downtown, a parade for the morning, and a band concert and fireworks display in the stadium Saturday night. Raoul had gone back home to see his family, which was disappointing, but she'd be fine.

She swung by the Task Rabbit office. Shauna held up a yellow slip for her wordlessly; she was on the phone taking notes from a new customer. Christine leaned against the counter, glancing it over. It was from him, the mysterious employer. A shopping list, this time for the Uptown Market, and a very specific shopping list it was, too, but oddly small. Maybe he just needed a few things. Shrugging, she waved at the receptionist, who nodded back, and headed out the door.

The grocery store was a rather chic spot on the southwest side of the city. It boasted a bakery, deli, and food bar second to none, as well as exotic desserts by the slice and international brands. The store was well outside of her pay scale, and Christine prepared to thoroughly enjoy spending someone else's money.

Pots of live herbs and bouquets of fresh flowers lined the entryway of the building, a two-story wood and glass portico complete with soothing music. She pulled a small cart from the row, looking about with delight, and began to check items off of the printed list. Sourdough bread, beef tenderloin, porcini mushrooms, high quality vegetable stock, broccolini, heavy cream, a head of garlic, expensive fresh coffee beans …the man apparently knew how to cook. Christine stopped in the tea and coffee aisle, mesmerized by the choices, and selected a box of an old favorite, Yunnan black tea, for herself. At the checkout line she showed her Task Rabbit ID card and had no problem charging the groceries to his account. She paid for her tea and carried the bags out to the Honda.

Christine started the car, feeling her light cotton shirt sticking damply to her skin. _Thank Heavens for air-conditioning,_ she thought, pointing the vents upward toward her face. The mid-summer day held the promise of a sultry afternoon. Heading south out of town, a faint shimmer rose from the asphalt and a haze hung over the fields. Cattle moved lazily in the sun, standing chest deep in ponds or lying in the shade.

Within fifteen minutes she was pulling into the the long curving driveway of the Martin house. Approaching the silent porch, she hesitated. Not a leaf was stirring. It was so miserably hot today, surely it was irresponsible to just leave groceries that might spoil on the bench. She pressed the doorbell.

.

Upstairs the security system buzzed, the alarm meaning the driveway gate had been activated. Erik sighed and reached for his cane, slowly beginning the long trek up the stairs. He'd barely made it to the front hall when the doorbell chimed. He punched the camera button, somewhat surprised to see the errand-girl from Task Rabbit. Oh yes…his groceries. "Yes?" he said brusquely.

She smiled. She had a pretty smile. "Hello. I've brought your groceries from the Uptown store. I was afraid to leave anything out here in the heat." She had a pleasant speaking voice; he guessed she'd be an alto if she sung. For a long moment he stood there paralyzed with uncharacteristic indecision, while her face on the camera began to look puzzled. Erik raised a hand to his face…the mask was in place, and his leg was aching terribly again. Grudgingly, he disabled the alarm system and unlocked the door.

.

The last sound Christine expected to hear were the sounds of deadbolts being slid back. There were several of them. The heavy wooden door opened slowly and she glanced up, surprised.

He was tall, much taller than her own 5'8". Probably at lest 6'4", she'd guess. And thin, so terribly thin. The hand on the door was almost skeletal. He looked anorexic. Piercing black eyes met hers, eyes so dark she couldn't see their pupils.

"Yes?"

Temporarily speechless, Christine held up the bags, and he stepped back awkwardly, leaning heavily on a cane made of some smoothly polished dark wood. Bright carnation color swept up her cheeks. "I am so sorry. I just didn't want your food to spoil. Can I bring it in for you?"

No one had ever violated his sanctuary. But his leg ached, and she was just a young woman…and the sacks would be difficult to carry. "In here," he said stiffly, turning away.

Christine paused inside the doorway, glancing about as the man secured the door behind her. What an unusual house, very ultramodern and oddly impersonal. A massive black concert grand piano dominated the living area, even set as it was in an alcove. The other side of the room was lined with bookshelves, filled with hundreds of volumes, surrounding an empty hearth. The sole pieces of furniture were a rather odd-looking black leather chair with an ottoman, an adjustable floor lamp, and small table nearby. There were no pictures, no photographs or artwork. Shaking her head, she followed the silent man as he limped into the kitchen. It too was minimalist, starkly black and steel, grey granite and glass.

"Leave the sacks on the counter, please," he said quietly and she stared. His voice, though subdued, echoed around the room. It was like no other voice she'd ever heard, velvet and amber, honey and dark chocolate, smoky and rich, the most seductive voice she'd ever heard. Christine swallowed, staring, her palms damp. He shifted uncomfortably, turning to look at her directly. "Is something the matter?"

It was then she noticed the mask.

.

Afterwards in the car, the entire encounter took on a surreal quality. She remembered dark hair, parted on the side, short though rough and untrimmed, his height and terrible thinness, and those piercing dark eyes. And a mask, a white mask over half of his face. Christine shook her head. A mask might mean many things, but probably mostly medical. She blushed crimson, suddenly filled with embarrassed self-loathing. The man was obviously unwell, his thinness, the limp and cane, the mask. Her own mother had been a nurse…she knew that a mask might cover burn scars, deformities, surgical wounds…and she'd stared like one of her own Junior High students. How humiliating for him, how embarrassing for herself. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," she muttered, hands tightening on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

.

Erik sat in the black leather Eames chair, a cut-crystal tumbler of brandy in his cold hand. The girl…he could still feel her presence in his house like some damned ghost, the faintest trace of perfume still hanging in the air. She'd seen the mask, but at least she hadn't screamed, run, or asked questions. She'd simply settled the grocery sacks on his counter, and offered, once, to help him put them away. There had been no pity in her voice—he could not have borne that—only concern. He'd sent her on her way afterwards, but could not so easily dismiss the memory.

* * *

"God, Meg, I felt so stupid." Christine sighed. The two were sitting by the pool, dangling their legs in the water. "There he was and all I could do was stare at him like an idiot." She shook her head.

Meg shrugged. "Much as I hate to say it, Chris, if the guy wears a mask he's probably used to it." She took a long drink from her water bottle and passed the cool wet surface over her forehead and chest. She ignored the avid expressions of the two men sitting at the table opposite with the nonchalance of long experience.

Christine shot them a glance and rolled her eyes. Meg had come down earlier in the day for lunch and decided to stay. As always, with her dancer's lean body and barely-there red bikini, her friend attracted every male eye in the vicinity.

"I wish you could have heard his voice. Like melted chocolate or something, the most seductive thing I've ever heard. I wonder if he sings or does radio."

"That good, huh?" Meg grinned wickedly.

"Oh yeah."

"So what's he look like, besides the mask?"

Christine pursed her lips. "Really tall, like almost basketball player tall, but freaky thin. Pale. Like he's been really ill, or maybe just never ever out in the sun. Super dark eyes and hair, might have some Native ancestry. Not cute, but kind of distinguished, I guess."

"Not really your type." Meg studied her.

"I have a type?" Christine laughed and made a face. "But no, I know what you mean. Anyway, he's older than I am."

Meg grinned. "Like that makes a difference. Just means they've just had longer to practice. So what's the update on Raoul?" She leaned back on her arms, raising her chin to angle her head toward the sun, shaking back her loose blond hair, and the men across the pool nearly fell over.

"You are so doing that on purpose," Christine muttered, and Meg laughed her throaty laugh. "Maybe."

"You're just evil. Like that Elvira woman."

Meg grinned. "But they're so easy."

Christine snickered and swirled one leg in the cool water. "Raoul should be back tonight. He went home for the weekend, duty called."

"Are you two a Thing yet?" Meg's hazel eyes were dancing with curiosity.

She smiled. "Well, yeah, kind of. We hang out together, meet for lunch. I don't think he's dating anyone else. We really haven't had time to do much, between mid-terms and work."

"How is that weird errand-y job working out?" Meg sat up and lazily reached for the sun block bottle, rubbing it sensuously down her arms. Christine ducked her head to stifle the giggles.

"Now you're just being cruel." Her friend smirked. "The job—it's ok, doesn't bring in much, but it's fun to drive around town and meet people." She described Dr. Valerius in detail, and the little girl with leukemia for whom they'd tied so many balloons. "Of course, some of it is boring," she admitted, "like all the grocery deliveries or picking up dry-cleaning. Once I got to house-sit and all I had to do was water plants. Another time someone had me hang out online and buy concert tickets the moment they went available to the public. Wild." She shook her head and glanced at the two young men, who were practically drooling. "Come on, I'm taking you inside. And maybe making you wear a muumuu or something."

Back inside, Meg wrapped a gauzy oversized shirt around her tiny bikini and dropped onto the couch, gracefully tucking her legs under and twirling a long curl about her fingers. "So tell me more about this Raoul of yours. What's his last name? What's he studying?"

Christine handed her a glass of lemonade and stretched out in the chair opposite. "Business of some sort, and he has an odd last name, French or something. De Chagny."

Meg raised her eyebrows and tapped a manicured nail against perfect teeth. "De Chagny? As in the Washington-Oregon de Chagnys?"

Christine took a long drink, raising both eyebrows. "How should I know? Maybe? I think he said once that's where his family lives."

Meg shook her head, bemused. "Oh honey. You're out of your league then. If it's the same family, the great-grandfather was another of those 1800's land barons, and the dad was a governor or something twenty years ago. Now he's head of some business and it's the older son who's in politics. Or was."

Christine stared. "How do you know this stuff?"

Hazel eyes sparkled wickedly over the rim of the glass. "You poor innocent. I was raised on this 'stuff.' The Washington de Chagnys run in the same circles as the Girys. Old money."

She thought furiously for a moment and then nodded, feeling unsettled. "I guess so. He's never mentioned it, but I know there is an older brother and he clearly has money. But Raoul's not a bit stuck up or political."

"Blood will always out," Meg said darkly. "You just watch your step with him, ok? I'd hate to see you get hurt."

* * *

Meg had driven off in her little red Fiat after dinner, and Christine had taken ten minutes to tidy the condo. Raoul called shortly after that, and chatted about his weekend. They'd taken the sailboat out on the lake, Philippe had brought by yet another prospective girlfriend, he'd played two rounds of racquetball, there had been a cookout at the lake house. "But I wish you'd been there, Ms. Chris," he said.

"It sounds like fun, but I'm not ready to meet your family yet," she'd demurred. Meg's words had left an unsettled feeling.

"How about meeting me?" he teased.

She glanced at the clock. "How quickly can you get here?"

"I'm on the way!"

Raoul bounded up the stairs two at a time and pounced on Christine at the door. He swooped her into an exuberant hug and spun her about the room, laughing. She leaned in, sniffing, and nuzzled his neck appreciatively. "Yum, you smell good."

He pulled an arm around her. "New aftershave. I take it you like it."

"Oh yes."

He grinned. "I thought men were supposed to smell like old pickup trucks or something, to attract women."

"Leather saddles and horses."

"Gun oil and iron."

"Dirt and sweat."

He threw a sofa pillow at her and she dodged, laughing, and he caught her around the waist, spinning her around again, kissing the nape of her neck. "You smell good, too." She turned in his arms and the next kiss landed on her lips. "Oh…hey…I'm sorry." He searched her face. "Unless you aren't."

"Not really," she said breathlessly. "Why don't we try it again, so I can see?"

Gazing into her eyes, Raoul raised a hand and wound his fingers through her hair, pulling her gently in closer. His lips brushed hers lightly, experimentally, and when she didn't pull away or protest, he deepened the kiss. Her hands traveled slowly up his back, caressing his shoulders, then pressing flat, one hand stroking his hair. They remained like that for several minutes, tasting, testing, till finally they broke for air.

"Wow," he said shakily, and she could feel the pounding of his heart, wondering if he could feel her own racing pulse. He stroked back a loose tendril of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "I think we'd better stop there for night, Ms. Chris…unless you don't want to." He looked at her questioningly, and Christine's face flamed.

"Raoul," she whispered, "I like you a lot, but I'm not ready to go there...yet."

"Yet," he breathed, and she nodded.

"Just give me some more time…we've only known each other four weeks."

He leaned in and gently kissed her forehead. "Whatever time you need, Christine. I'll be here."

* * *

.

So they finally meet! Were your guesses correct? Up next, the 4th of July.


	7. Chapter 7 July 4th

**A/N** —I appreciate so much those of you who leave a review with every chapter. Thank you—it really means a lot!

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chapter 7 July 4th

2016, 2017

"Erik, really, it would be easier if you'd come in." Jules Reyer raked an agitated hand through his hair, causing the wiry silver strands to look as if they were electrically charged.

Erik rolled his work stool nearer the high bench. "Have you forgotten that I cannot drive right now?" he responded icily, glaring at the phone.

"It's a bass, Erik. It's huge and it weighs a ton and it won't fit in my car. It's not like I can bring it to you."

"If you didn't drive a Porsche..."

"It impresses the co-eds," he replied urbanely.

Erik sighed. "Reyer, no one says 'co-eds' any more. Do join the 21st century."

"Oh, like you have." There was a stricken pause. "I'm sorry, Erik."

"Send a car for me," he snarled. "Around 8:00. And Reyer, you owe me." He thumbed the off button irritably; reflecting bitterly that it was a pity there was really no way to slam down a phone any more.

* * *

The holiday had dawned bright and sunny, but Christine spent Saturday morning in her pajamas, alternately dozing and reading or surfing her favorite internet sites, feeling that a reward for good work was deserved. Laundry and cleaning took up the next three hours. She was missing Raoul; he would have enjoyed the fireworks and they could have gone hiking on the river walk or explored Landis Park or just hung out.

She did a quick grocery run to restock for the week, and on return, decided she'd been alone long enough. The weekly condo email newsletter had been promoting a Fourth of July cookout at the clubhouse and poolside. Meg was always encouraging her to get out more, so she made a pan of caramel brownies to contribute, changed into her new sundress, locked the door, and headed down the stairs.

The cookout had actually been fun. One wall of the clubhouse opened sliding glass doors toward the pool. Balloons and flags decorated the walkways, and chairs and tables were scattered about, encouraging residents to sit and talk or eat. Management had provided burgers and hot dogs, with the tenants supplying potluck sides and drinks. She'd eaten and talked with several people, meeting neighbors and enjoying the evening breeze and conversation. As evening fell everyone slowly began to depart for the campus to see the fireworks display at the stadium.

Parking was already an issue, the lots around the stadium full, with people jammed along the streets and pulled up on the grass. That was a big no-no, one of the fastest ways to acquire a ticket on the campus. Christine wove her way slowly through the crowds, heading toward the SE corner near Education and to her surprise, found an open slot by the music building. Surely the campus police wouldn't be looking to issue tickets in this area tonight? She clicked the locks and began the walk back toward the stadium.

The university grounds were usually so different at night. Not that she ever felt unsafe, it was just typically peaceful, dark and quiet after the last classes dismissed, unless one was near the library, computer labs, or the dorms. Tonight the entire area was crowded with groups of students and locals wandering in the direction of the stadium, with laughter, conversation, and the occasional illicit firecracker burst echoing through the night.

Christine followed the crowds for a while. The stadium could and did hold thousands... between the crowds and two-lane streets getting out after the fireworks show would be difficult. She paused irresolutely on the sidewalk, considering. There were concrete benches and seats scattered under the trees on the lawn outside of the Barlett Performing Arts Center, and it was only two blocks south of the stadium. It was a pleasant night; the view would be fine from here. Christine was not a crowd person...a change of plans might be for the best. A stone bench—Class of 1923—was nearby and she headed for it to wait.

* * *

In the end, the director had arrived himself, offering to bring his reclusive friend to the campus. They rode in silence, Erik tight-lipped and uncomfortable in the low-slung automobile. Reyer, usually as sensitive as a brick to anything outside of a musical score, parked in the rear. The building was mostly deserted, on a weekend and after hours as it was, and they quickly reached the orchestra room and music offices from the back entrance. Erik strode in rapidly, avoiding looking at the name plaques and announcement boards, his head down in the building he'd once loved, not noticing Jules glancing repeatedly at his watch.

The large black case leaned forlornly against the rear wall of the office. Erik snapped open the latches and carefully took the broken scroll into his long hands. Cracked clear through, fingerboard ruined, the strings loose and dangling, the pins useless. He sighed. "And just how did this happen?"

Jules Reyer shrugged. "The boy has feet like water skis and has no idea where to put them. I suppose he tripped. Again. This time we had a casualty." He touched the broken instrument ruefully. "He's a fantastic cellist, though."

Erik grimaced. "He would have to be, for you to keep him around."

"Can you repair this?"

"I believe so." He gently lowered the bass to its case. "Can you have someone bring it out?"

"Probably."

He pinned Reyer with his eyes. "I wish to go back home."

Reyer carefully stood the instrument case back into a corner of his office. "I'm not sure I can find someone to drive you. Like I told you, I'll be happy to take you back myself, but I must find my wife first. Why don't you join me for the fireworks, Erik? They're due to begin soon."

"No. I'll find a taxi."

"Suit yourself."

Erik sighed. "Fine. I'll wait."

They left the building together. Dr. Reyer locked the door behind him and paused. "If you want to stay put, I'll be back in a bit, maybe twenty minutes or so. I promised my wife I'd meet her and I have to let her know I'll be late," he said apologetically.

Erik lifted his shoulders irritably and leaned on the back of the Porsche. "Do I have a choice? I'll wait here."

But after only a brief few minutes, the strain on his bad leg was becoming unbearable. If memory served, there should be benches just the other side of the building. Gritting his teeth, Erik hobbled into the darkness.

* * *

She became aware of slowly approaching footsteps and shot an apprehensive glance to her right. A figure was moving toward the benches, limping slightly. It was a man, very tall and thin, dressed in a dark suit with an old-fashioned hat pulled low over his face, the kind of hat Humphrey Bogart might have worn.

Taking a chance, Christine called softly out to him. "Dr. Martin?"

The man's head snapped up. In the darkness, his black eyes appeared sunken in his almost skeletally thin face. "Yes?"

She scooted over, patting the concrete seat. "If you were looking for a bench…" her voice trailed off, uncertainly.

A flicker of recognition crossed his face. "I…yes. Thank you…"

"Christine."

He nodded. "Christine." He awkwardly sat at the far end of the bench, tension rising off of him like smoke, and carefully stretched one leg out, fidgeting with his cane.

This was not a man who enjoyed small talk. Christine decided the kindest thing she could do would be to leave him alone, though she covertly studied him in the light of the street lamps. He was not wearing the mask, but the right side of his pale face looked oddly smooth and unnatural. A prosthetic? One of those latex or silicon wound covers? She couldn't tell…that side of his face was turned away from her, deliberately so, she thought.

A minute later the streetlights abruptly went out, and a cheer drifted to them from the stadium. The university marching band could vaguely be heard playing _The Stars and Stripes Forever_ , and then the first of the fireworks shot up in a chrysanthemum-like blossom, falling in golden sparkles.

Christine could feel the smile pulling at her face, and she relaxed into the joyous delight of the pyrotechnics. Blue and red, green and gold, white, silver, and pink, the fireworks launched into the dark sky and showered glittering embers. She leaned her head against the concrete wall, gazing upwards.

Erik allowed himself a brief glance at his silent companion. Her lovely face was turned up to the sky, her eyes peaceful, her mouth smiling. She wore a dress that revealed her bare shoulders and graceful collarbones, and her long brown hair was smoothly braided back. She was quite attractive, he realized. _Christine._ The name suited her.

He relaxed slightly, grudgingly watching the fireworks. His companion was silent, for which he was grateful. Most women could not be silent if their lives depended on it, and she did not seem unduly alarmed by his presence.

Christine gave a little disappointed sigh when the grand finale finally flickered out of existence, then rose to her feet. "That's it for another year," she said with genuine regret.

Bracing himself, Erik stood, gingerly testing the bad leg. 'Yes." He turned to face her. "You enjoyed yourself."

His answer was a sad smile. "Oh yes…my father always took me to see the fireworks, when I was a child." She did not elaborate as he studied her.

"There was an item amongst my groceries that I did not order," he said abruptly, and she flushed.

"My tea? I wondered where it had gotten off to. Don't worry," she added hurriedly, "I paid for it on my own. I just must have gathered it up with the other sacks."

"I was not concerned about that." Indeed, he'd noted the separate receipt. "I need to return it to you."

Christine flicked the end of her braid behind her back and smiled. "Don't worry about it. I'll pick it up the next time I'm out your way." She began walking toward the street and he fell into step beside her. He noted that she slowed her pace to match his awkward gait.

"I had noticed that you seem to have become my regular errand runner," he said dryly.

She smiled into the darkness. "No mystery there," she said easily. "I live out your direction, so I usually take your orders."

"Ah." He stopped in front of the Porsche. Reyer had not yet returned.

"Wow. Is that yours?" Christine indicated the gleaming vehicle.

"No, it belongs to a colleague. He was to give me a ride home." Erik indicated his leg. "I cannot drive yet."

"I'm sorry," she said, sounding genuinely sympathetic. "That must be a horrible nuisance for you. You said a colleague? So do you work here?"

"No."

 _Don't pry, Christine, shut up. Leave the man alone, for heaven's sake._

A chiming tone came from his pocket. "Excuse me." _Sorry, wife is chatting up the Dean. Be there eventually—R_. He read the text with irritation and slid the phone back into his pocket.

"Everything ok?"

He made a gesture of dismissal. "He is running late."

The girl paused. "Shall I stay with you until he gets here?" She could have bitten back the words immediately.

"I am not an invalid," he snapped.

"I'm sorry," she said stiffly and he saw the hurt pride in her eyes. "I was only offering some company while you waited. My apologies." She turned to go, and he saw the blue Honda several more spaces up the row.

"Forgive me," he muttered. "I've been on my leg too much tonight."

The return of her sympathy was swift. "Does it hurt much? Can you take anything for it?" She bit her lower lip. "If your friend is going to be a while, I can take you home," she offered hesitantly.

His hooded eyes narrowed in surprise. "You would do that?"

She shifted her small clutch to the other hand, fishing for keys. "Sure, why not? You don't live that far away, and maybe your colleague ran into friends or something."

There was a pause, and then Erik nodded once. "Yes. If you truly do not mind." He pulled out the phone, bestowed a withering glance on it, jabbed a text and sent it.

The ride home was silent. He sat rigidly beside her, not moving and barely breathing. It had been years since he had been alone with anyone this close. She was unnerving…long supple bare arms and legs in that summer dress, the graceful column of her throat, eyes that looked grey in the moonlight. He forced himself to stare out the window, fingers drumming against one thigh.

The girl…Christine…was a good driver, he noted, calm and observant. The car's radio had come up on NPR, which he gave a mentally approving nod to. Surreptitious observation of the other radio buttons revealed a liking for classical music, Broadway show tunes, Big Band, Easy Listening, and the local pop/rock station. An eclectic combination.

"That's my complex," she said once, indicating a series of new condominiums rising along a hill, and he nodded.

He noted she had the gate code for his addition memorized, and paused at the end of his driveway, simply assuming a new code for the rolling gate. Smart girl. She pulled all the way up his driveway to the porch, thoughtfully reducing his walk, and waited until the door swung open before pulling away.

"Good evening!" she called, and he raised a hand in acknowledgement, gratefully shutting the door. It had been a stressful night.

* * *

.

We got to see a bit more of Erik in this chapter! As always, I appreciate feedback, comments, and questions. Please please leave a review!

Next week, classes resume and Erik finds an excuse to see Christine again.


	8. Chapter 8 A Bass in Distress

**A/N** —Answering questions—Christine is 28, Raoul is 29, Erik is 38 here. I promise we'll get more of Erik's back-story…as Christine finds it out!

In answer to a PM, questioning about the accident in the orchestral room…well, I probably didn't explain it well enough. The young man in question *is* a cellist, but he is incredibly clumsy. Upon getting up one afternoon at rehearsal he manages to trip over the legs of a music stand and fall, taking out the poor bass behind him. Musicians may appear to be a gentle lot, their head in the clouds, but they are fiercely protective of their instruments and he is rather lucky that the owner of said bass didn't beat him to death on the spot. The bassist was, in fact, held back by his fellow section members who had snatched their own instruments out of the way. Reyer is quite exasperated with him, but he's there on scholarship and really is a good player. If the boy can learn to control his feet-he wears a size 15 shoe-he will be an excellent addition to the orchestra. And yes, Erik will be able to fix the neck of the poor broken bass.

Huge thank-yous to all who left comments on the last chapter here and on the mid-week _Scrapbook_ piece. You all rock!

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chapter 8 A Bass in Distress

2016, 2017

"I'll get the bass out to you next week sometime, Erik."

"Or you could borrow a van from the motor pool and just drive it out here," he rejoined.

"I am simply swamped this week, as I said." Reyer said shortly.

"Nonsense, Reyer, you're simply lazy. I would prefer to have it now, while I have time to work on it." He paused. "Have that errand-running service bring it out here, then, but do it today!" he ordered coolly, then thumbed off the phone.

Nearly a week had passed since the holiday weekend. No doubt Reyer did have his hands full with the summer term but at the most, delivering the bass would take perhaps forty five minutes. Erik turned back to his workbench, exasperated.

Back on campus and presented with a solution that didn't involve any personal responsibility beyond a phone call, Jules Reyer seized the opportunity and called the Task Rabbit office.

* * *

Classes resumed Monday with vigor. Christine met Raoul for lunch, grumbling about the amount of homework, and found him buried in his own assignments. "I'd love to see you tonight, Chris, but this Econ analysis is going to take the better part of my evening. And maybe more," he said ruefully, pushing back his already rumpled hair.

She sighed in sympathy. "I have a stack of French translations due tomorrow, and a huge reading assignment in Euro. So it's probably better. I've got one quick Tasker run today, then I'll have to buckle down. Looks like it's a microwave meal for me."

Checking her watch later, Christine realized that she had over an hour before her only afternoon Task, and settled in at the library to read and take notes over the Euro chapter. The building was possibly her favorite place on the campus, with a distinctive scent of its own of old books, polished brass, marble floors, and aged wood.

Promptly at 4:00, she knocked on the office door of the concertmaster and head of the music department, a Dr. Jules Reyer. A man of average height with black glasses and wiry silver hair, he oozed impatience and moved with a frenetic energy as he led her to his office. There was a rather large instrument in a case to be delivered south of town, and with the help of a fellow student, drafted as he walked by, they lowered the back row of seats and got the instrument loaded safely in the back of her CRV.

Amused at the giant black case dwarfing the entire rear section of the car—however did musicians carry around a six-foot instrument anyway?—she drove out to Dr. Martin's house wondering what he could possibly want with a bass from the campus. She pulled up in the long curving drive and parked. The bass was not particularly heavy, but it was rather unwieldy, and the last two times she'd seen the man he'd been walking with a cane. Thoughtfully, she rang the doorbell.

"Yes?" Brusque as always.

She leaned toward the speaker grill. "Hello, Dr. Martin. I've brought the bass out from the campus."

A minute later she heard the bolts slide back and he stepped out on the porch, frowning. "Yes?"

Christine swallowed. How to ask without being rude? "Would you like me to bring it inside? The wind will catch it on the porch, and it's so…big and awkward."

Those unblinking black eyes focused on her for a long minute, then a flush of dark color ran up his neck and face. Embarrassment? Chagrin? Anger? She said nothing, nearly holding her breath. Finally he nodded.

"Yes, that might be for the best. Would you mind driving it around to the back of the house? My workshop is on that level and it will save me the trouble of dragging it down the stairs."

"Of course," Christine smiled, hiding her relief. _That went better than expected. Workshop?_ "Just tell me where to go."

"Do you mind driving on the grass?" She shook her head. "Then continue forward, swing wide. Go past the garage and you'll see the lower level." He disappeared back inside. The bolts snapped shut.

Returning to the Honda, she cautiously drove forward, having no idea how steep the drop-off might be. To her relief, the hillside sloped gently on the west side of the house, and she followed a curving stone path down and around. The house was built on a hill, with the garage to the side and a large flagstone terrace under a deck in the rear. She maneuvered the car as close to the lower door as possible and hopped out, opening the hatch.

Erik closed and relocked the front door. As much as it irked him, the girl was being thoughtful, and a bass would be extremely difficult to carry down the stairs. He turned and limped toward the back of the house.

She was walking toward the French doors, carrying the instrument case as he emerged from the stairwell, her arms wrapped around it awkwardly to keep from bumping it on the terrace. He unlocked and held open the glass doors as she tugged the black case inside, and flicked the long brown braid behind her shoulder, seemingly a habitual gesture. "Where would you like it?"

Erik opened both doors to his workshop, feeling an unusual flutter in his stomach. No one had ever been in here; it was his sanctum and the one thing he held pride in. He shook his head; it was ridiculous to worry about what a stranger thought.

Christine looked around the open rooms with interest. Again, the areas were so sparsely furnished as to be stark, another of those odd leather chairs, a leather sofa, and many cabinets. She brought the case in, turning sideways through the French doors, and then across the lower level room and into a sort of workspace. He indicated a corner where she could prop the heavy instrument and turned, looking about curiously.

"This is my workshop," he said after a moment's silence, watching her bright eyes take in the tools and counters. "I repair instruments sometimes; it is a hobby of mine."

"Oh," she smiled. "I wondered if you were borrowing the bass to play. I saw your piano upstairs. I take it you're a musician."

Erik paused. "I…yes. Violin and piano are my instruments, but I can play nearly anything."

Her eyes were smiling. "I can play the piano. I used to be pretty good. Not great, mind you, just good. I've not had one to practice on in recent years. It's difficult, living in an apartment. People complain about noise."

He nodded. "It is one of the reasons I moved out here. No one near me."

She gestured at the case. "So is it hurt? The bass, I mean. Broken." She blushed.

"Double bass," he corrected absently, turned carefully and limped to the case, easing it against the counter, unsnapping the latches and raising the lid.

"Oh." Christine's eyes were full of sympathy. She reached out a gentle hand, almost touching the carved scroll. "That's awful. Can you fix it?"

Erik lifted the ebony wood neck, cradling the sagging head in his long thin hands, and his impassive face became animated as he spoke. "I believe so. I do not think the sound will be affected at all, but we shall see. It is a student instrument, but still a good one, and they are quite expensive. I will do what I can." He laid it back in the case and turned to her. "Thank you for bringing it out to me."

She gave him a sunny smile. "You're welcome. And thanks for letting me see your workshop. It's really interesting."

He walked her back to the French doors. "I will no doubt be in contact for you to return it."

"Just let me know." Christine waved a hand. "You're my last errand of the day. I'm off now…French homework calls."

"French homework?"

She paused on the terrace. "Yes, I'm taking it as a summer course. I have to show proficiency in a foreign language for my MA program."

He inclined his head, curiously. "So working for Task Rabbit…"

"Just gives me something to do. I don't really need the money, but it's fun to get out, see the town. It's really different from when I was here last."

"What degree are you pursuing?" Erik reached for something safe to say.

She sighed. "History, with a minor in Euro. I'm a teacher in real life, going back for my MA. It's harder than I thought. Statistics is rough, but it's good for me. I'm getting through it."

He nodded stiffly. "I shall not keep you from your studies, then. Thank you again."

She gave him that brilliant smile. "You're welcome. Goodbye!"

* * *

The mid-day sun was blinding on the white house paint. Christine blinked her eyes several times, trying to clear the pink-green dazzle from her vision. Around her the sounds of a summer day buzzed; small insects, passing traffic, someone's yard sprinklers. She straightened, wiping her forehead and lifting Dr. Valerius's floppy old hat to get some cooling breeze on her head out in the garden.

She was very much afraid that the garden was going to be overwhelmed with weeds before the elderly lady returned from visiting her daughter out of state. Zucchinis were threatening to expand into giant cylinders of green, cucumbers multiplied overnight, the runner beans ran riot, and even the usually well-behaved tomatoes were conspiring to all turn ripe at once.

A little brown bunny hopped inquisitively along the edges of the chicken wiring that ran the perimeter of the garden plot. "Don't even think about it," Christine told it sternly, and the bunny bit a glass blade, watching her with innocent dark eyes. "Nice try, but I know what you want, and the answer is no."

"Who are you talking to? Me?" Raoul's amused voice called to her. Christine looked up, aware of the dirt smudges on her face and her sunburned nose. Raoul was leaning against his car, watching with laughter.

"Nope. That bunny." She pointed with the hoe. "He wants the veggies. Don't be fooled by those big ears and cottontail. He's a one-bunny disaster machine. Or so Dr. V says."

Raoul came up the slight incline. "Dr. V?"

"This is her garden. I'm house and cat-sitting this week, and I thought I'd tackle the garden. But I'm out of my depth," Christine admitted. "I swear the weeds know I'm not really in charge."

"But the bunny?" Raoul grinned broadly. "Don't tell me—that rabbit is a killer!"

She grinned back. "You think that's just a harmless little bunny, but no! That's the most foul, cruel, and bad-tempered rodent you ever set eyes on! One paw inside the gate and then poof! All the lettuces and carrots are gone!"

Raoul was laughing. "So glad I drove by. Can you take a break? I can get us something to drink from the Loaf 'n Jug if you want."

"Please." She passed a hand across her forehead. "I'm about done here anyway."

"What do you want?"

"Iced tea—a big one!"

Christine gathered her tools and knocked the dirt from them, replacing them neatly in the shed, and lifted the basket of produce. It would keep well enough in the refrigerator, and Dr. V had told her to take home what she wanted.

Dez meowed beseechingly as Christine opened the back door, pushing the large furry cat back inside with one foot, then wound around her ankles begging. "You are just as bad as the bunny," she told the cat. "Always wanting." She rinsed her hands at the old-fashioned deep sink and quickly tidied her hair.

Raoul returned a few minutes later bearing two cups in a drink holder. Christine introduced Raoul to Dez, who sniffed the outstretched fingers disdainfully and walked haughtily away in the manner of unimpressed felines worldwide.

They sat on the porch swing talking. Philippe had parted from his latest girlfriend, despite their mother's insistence that he settle down. "She wants both of us to get married, settle down, and produce grandchildren for her to spoil, so she has photos and stories to tell at her womens' group meetings," Raoul said with irritation. "She's always pushing, reminding Phil that he's nearly 41, as if that would make the ideal bride appear. I wish he would find someone, for his sake, but then they'd just be under pressure to produce kids nine months after the wedding."

"Your mother sounds intense," Christine said cautiously, and he nodded.

"You have no idea. She's anxious for Dad to retire and Phil to take over, and she knows once he does he'll never get out and date. The company needs an heir, she needs grandkids." He pushed at the ground with a toe, setting the porch swing moving again and turning to her with a smile. "Enough of that, though, how would you like to join me for dinner?"

* * *

"I really must return the favor some time," Nadir Khan mused, swirling the rich red wine in his glass before taking another sip.

"I'd take you up on that, but your idea of _haute cuisine_ is a burrito you didn't have to microwave," Erik retorted, but with a smile.

"Alas, 'tis true," Nadir replied unperturbed. "Thank Allah for the convenience of carry out and delivery."

"You'd starve, otherwise."

"Quite probably," he agreed cheerfully, savoring another sip of the wine. "And since we're on the topic, what is for dessert?"

" _Pots de crème_. We can have them with our coffee. And no, I did not make them myself; they came from the Market store's bakery." He rose, wincing as the bad leg twisted. Nadir raised an eyebrow.

"Leg paining you?"

"Doesn't it always?" he said shortly. "Leave it, Nadir. Not tonight."

The Iranian set down his empty wine glass and rose, stacking the dinner dishes. "Have you even looked into that therapy? If you won't listen to your doctor, at least listen to your friend and do something to strengthen it before winter, or you'll have a repeat of last year's excitement."

"I said, leave it."

He sighed and raked the younger man with disapproving eyes, but said nothing else, carrying dishes into the kitchen and placing them neatly by the sink.

"I'll get the rest of this later," Erik said, reaching for the coffee beans. "Decaf or regular?"

"Regular, please. I need my wits about me after that wine."

Erik nodded, setting the bag on the counter and then removing the small containers of bittersweet chocolate dessert from the refrigerator. "Go set up the board and I'll bring the coffee in."

Khan grinned, carrying the small desert cups into the living room. Tonight's victory would be his.

* * *

.

Next week's update will see some interesting developments between Erik and Christine, as he makes an unusual request. Thank you for reading, and please do leave a review or comment, like the awesome readers you are!

I'd love to do a few call-outs for fellow authors over the next few chapters. Please drop by and take a look at the works of LittleLongHairedOutlaw, here on FFN. She writes superb one-shots that get you right in the emotions, and her on-going stories— _Wraiths of Wandering, Tender is a Kiss_ , and _Etched with Tears_ , are well worth checking out!


	9. Chapter 9 Phone Calls and an Invitation

**A/N** —It might have been a Monty Python reference, yes! Dkk5—you were the 100th review for this story :)

Ah, everyone…I did warn you at the beginning this was going to have a slightly different take on the traditional _Phantom_ story! Hang in there…things are developing…

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chapter 9 Phone Calls and an Invitation

2016, 2017

She drove carefully up the hill, trying hard not to gouge the fresh green grass, wondering if he had a lawn service. Everything was cut and edged to perfection.

It definitely was a prosthetic of some sort, on his face. Though he'd tried to keep that side turned away from her, he'd apparently forgotten when he'd reached over to lift the bass from its case. The color was amazingly close, but the texture was just a bit off, slightly shiny and slick, pulling oddly when he spoke. It covered the entire right side of his face, from just below the jaw to his hairline, and part way across the forehead. Whatever damage there was had to be bad. She shivered, wondering what injury had caused it, and if it was related to the leg.

Her mysterious employer was an enigma that tapped her curiosity. With that voice he could have easily been famous, but seemed to never leave his house. And what a somber, impersonal house it was too, all greys and black/white where apparently he lived alone. She'd seen a glimpse of the man beneath, though, when he'd reached for the broken bass. His thin face had lit up, eagerness and interest, a smile pulling at those hollow cheeks and sunken eyes.

* * *

"I don't know, Raoul, it's just kind of sad," she said two days later, curled up on the couch in his apartment, talking about Dr. Martin. "I think the poor guy lives there all alone, and he's so stiff and formal all the time, like he never talks to anyone. And he walks with this cane…you can tell his leg is really hurting him." _And his face is messed up somehow,_ she added silently, but somehow that felt too personal to say aloud. "I feel sorry for him, I think."

"Hey, I live alone…do I get a pretty girl to feel sorry for me?" Raoul asked teasingly.

Christine looked up at him with a smile. They were leaning back on the sofa, his arm around her shoulders, the remains of Chinese take-out scattered on the table in front of them.

"Nope, not even in the slightest," she told him solemnly, and he laughed, kissing her upturned nose lightly.

"I guess I'll have to settle for her admiration then." She smothered a laugh. "Adoration? Attention?" She was giggling by now, and he grinned down at her. "Seriously, though, do I have a rival, Chris?"

Christine caught her breath, staring up at him. "N-no," her eyes searched his face, sensing a faint unfamiliar tone under the light banter. "He's just this older guy on my route, that's all."

Raoul leaned down to kiss her again. "See to it that he stays that way," he said firmly, murmuring against her hair, and pulled her closer.

* * *

The Euro survey course was fascinating. She'd known most of the information from years of teaching it herself, but the professor, a thin, wiry woman in her fifties, had spent her entire life traveling overseas, meeting people and experiencing the world. Her parents had been diplomats, apparently, and she'd seen more of Europe by the age of ten than most Americans got to discover in a lifetime. She was simply charming, with wry anecdotes and side stories about people and places. She was teaching an advanced cultures course in the autumn and Christine had already decided to enroll in it.

That said, Dr. West was grimly determined to make them earn every point in her classes. Essays, debates, and making connections between seemingly disparate events took a great deal of Christine's study time. French was getting easier, the listening lab helped a great deal.

She completed enrollment for autumn, a full schedule that kept graduation plans on track. With only two weeks left in the summer term, Christine had cut back her time at Task Rabbit, but had left word that she would happily take on any errands for either Dr. Valerius or Dr. Martin, if either called. Projects and papers were coming due, and the increasingly rare spare time was occupied by Raoul. He'd sent her flowers on the date of her parents' death, a sweet and sensitive gesture that left Christine dissolved in tears. She'd not mentioned the date, so he must have gone to the trouble of looking that information up. It might have been intrusive or disturbing, but she felt his sympathy and concern through the simple words on the card.

They'd taken the time and spent a day at the local Arts Festival, sampling food and chatting with street musicians, artists, and school kids in craft booths, had played endless rounds of mini-golf, bowling, and tennis, and many late nights in the library, sitting across from each other at one of the long wooden tables. The light from his laptop made his eyes almost impossibly blue. She could only hope it didn't wash her out completely, but he never seemed to mind. Raoul was an easy person to be with, casual and charming, but with an underlying intensity. Christine was much too experienced to assume the relationship would endure but for now she enjoyed their time together.

Late one afternoon her phone chimed. It was a text from Task Rabbit, with a note to call when she could. Christine tapped the call back button, holding the phone to her ear while she stirred a pot of bubbling pasta.

"Oh, hey, Christine, it's Shauna. Thanks for getting back with me so quickly."

"Yeah, no prob. What's up?"

In the office, the young woman frowned at the note before her, tucking a strand of straight dark hair behind one ear. "Well, I had a weird call, from that Dr. Martin. He wanted your number but you know we don't give out personal numbers at all, like ever, but I told him I'd contact you and see what you said."

"Does he need something?"

"I guess so. Did I tell you he'd emailed us a couple weeks back and said you were the only one he wanted to have come out to his house?"

"No." Christine frowned.

"Is everything ok? Because we don't do weird, Christine. If he's getting hands-y or personal or something, you let us know."

She turned off the heat under the saucepan and pushed the steaming pasta pot back to a cool spot, and leaned against the counter, looking out the deck door. "No, nothing's going on, and no, I didn't know that. Did he leave a note or anything?"

"Nope. Just asked for you to get in touch with him. I've got his number. If you call him back, you be sure to let us know if it's anything we should be concerned about, ok?"

She ran fingers through her wispy bangs, pushing them off her damp forehead. "I will, I promise. What's the number?"

Shauna rattled off a series of digits and double-checked it. "You take care, now."

"I will, thanks. Bye."

"Bye."

She dumped the linguini into a strainer and then into a bowl, pouring hot alfredo sauce, grilled chicken, and steamed broccoli on top-one dish meal, easy to clean up-and settled at the counter with a glass of iced tea. Whatever could he want? She had not seen him since the day she'd driven out to retrieve the huge bass. He'd been utterly blank then, completely impersonal. Oh lord, had something happened to the expensive instrument? Surely not, or someone would have complained by now.

Christine turned on the evening news as a distraction, but her mind kept drifting back to the man who'd called. Admittedly, she was interested in him. Intrigued, even. His sensual voice was at such odds with his cold formal mannerisms, and she'd found herself wondering once or twice what it would be like to hear him sing and play that enormous piano. He had to be good; no one owned a concert grand unless they were very, very good.

Dumping the dirty dishes in the sink, she decided to call Meg. It had been days since she'd spoken to her oldest friend. The blond dancer didn't know about the latest developments with Raoul, and maybe she'd have some advice on the ramifications of calling strange men back.

* * *

.

* * *

"OMG, Chris!" Meg's squee came across the line clearly. "And was there tongue involved?"

"MEG." Christine was laughing. "Don't be such a perv." They were discussing Christine's date with Raoul the night before, and as always, her friend was dying for details.

Meg leaned forward and swirled one of her carefully counted out pita chips in the cup of hummus. "Come on, you can tell me. Best friends have no secrets. So, was there tongue? Is he a good kisser? 'Fess up! I'm dying for details here!"

"Let me tell you, he's good. My knees were weak. Damn, Meg," she grinned at the phone. "I could get used to that really fast."

"OK, then I have got to meet this guy. When can we come up? I'll bring Brian and we'll double-date. Or something."

"As soon as the summer session's over. None of us have any time until then. You don't either." She took a sip of tea.

"True, true that," Meg said unperturbably. "You just let us know and we'll be there."

"There was something else I wanted to ask you. You remember that older guy I sometimes run errands for? That Dr. Martin?" She twirled her fingers through the recharging cords lying on the counter. "Well, he wants my personal phone number and wants me to call him about something not related to the job."

Miles away Meg paused. "How do you feel about that? Weird? Nervous?"

"Nervous, I guess. I can't think what he wants to talk to me about."

"There's only one way to find out."

* * *

She dialed the number with shaking fingers. One ring…two. "Yes?" snapped a brusque voice.

"Hello? Dr. Martin?" Oh damnation, why was her voice shaking? She forced herself to slow down and breathe, adopting the professional voice used at parent-teacher conferences. "Dr. Martin. This is Christine Daae speaking." She paused, waiting.

"Oh yes. Ms…Daae. Thank you for returning my call." Was it her imagination, or did he sound slightly stressed? He paused, then continued on stiffly. "I must offer my apologies, Ms. Daae. Something had come up wherein I thought I might be in need of your assistance, but never mind. I'm sorry to have troubled you at home."

Christine frowned. There was something in his voice, almost a regret or wistfulness. "Wait," she said rapidly, not wanting him to hang up. "What was it?"

There was a long silence. "I don't suppose you have heard of the Opera Society of the Northwest?" At her denial, he continued. "They are having a private fund-raiser next month. I had not thought to go—it's in Boulder, and as you know, I cannot yet drive. The date has been scheduled for some time, but they have only now released the name of their guest. It's Joshua Bell." He paused, wondering if she would recognize the name.

"Joshua Bell? The violinist?" she squeaked. "Oh, wow. How amazing."

"Yes," he continued. "It's probably a once-in-a-lifetime chance to hear him perform in such a small venue. He's going on to Denver after that for a performance, and somehow agreed to add in a day for the Society. I would dearly like to attend," she could hear the frustration seeping into his voice," and there are two tickets reserved for me, but getting there is the issue. I cannot drive, there is no convenient bus service, a taxi is obviously out of the question, and for…personal reasons…I do not wish to fly."

 _Walking long distances in an airport would be hard on his leg,_ she thought, and then it dawned on her. "So you were looking for a driver, perhaps?"

"Yes," he said wryly. "And I would have asked if you wished to attend with me. But I realize it is much too far to ask you, and though it could be driven in two long days, it would necessitate an overnight stay. So, as much as I would enjoy the concert…"

"But I'd love to go," she said in a rush. "Joshua Bell—I'll probably never have another chance to see him."

There was a long silence. "You would? You would truly not mind? We could take my car, if you prefer, and I would of course pay for everything, the tickets, the hotel, meals."

"I can get my own meals," she said automatically.

"No, I would insist. You would be doing me such a tremendous favor." She could almost feel him withdrawing, embarrassed to have to ask, over the phone.

"When is the concert?"

"August 12th. It is during your intercession, I did check to be sure it would not interfere with your classes. Unless, of course, you are not returning in the fall."

"No, no, I'm in the MA program for the next two years at least." She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. "I suppose this is very formal?"

"Yes, it will be."

"I haven't a thing to wear," she mused aloud. "All my clothing is either teacher-clothing or weekend wear."

"If you would permit, I could…"

"Oh good God no," Christine said, horrified. "I didn't mean that at all. I'll just have to take myself shopping at some point. How formal 'formal' are we talking here?"

"Very, I should think. Black tie."

"Yes." She was thinking rapidly. "We'll have to get together at some point and work out the details, the route and so forth."

"There is plenty of time. I will ask you over to dinner one night, or we could meet elsewhere, if you would prefer," he said stiffly.

"No, Dr. Martin, dinner is fine. And thank you."

"No, thank you, Ms. Daae. So shall I confirm the tickets?"

"Yes, please."

* * *

"Christine, I don't like this at all." Raoul walked away from her, running his hand through his rumpled hair. "I could have taken you, if you'd wanted."

They were standing on the balcony outside of his apartment, and she sighed. This discussion was not going well. "Raoul, you hate classical music. You said so yourself. And besides, the tickets are by reservation only. Neither of us could have gone."

"It sounds like he's chasing you."

"He's borderline crippled," she snapped, feeling an odd twinge of disloyalty to a man she barely knew. "It's not as if he could run after me."

"No, just bribe you with expensive trips. And in a hotel over night? Chris…"

She tightened her hands on the railing before speaking. "It's just one night, and in separate rooms, for God's sake. You act like he's a creeper."

"He might be."

"Oh Raoul, don't be like this. It's one weekend and I'll be back. It's just a concert." She leaned against his chest unhappily, and he sighed.

"Fine. Just text me and keep in touch, ok? I worry about you."

"I'll be fine."

She turned her face up for a kiss, and for the moment, all was well.

* * *

Meg, to her infinite relief, was much more prosaic about the entire situation. "So, you're like, his assistant or something. That's cool. And black tie, so now we gotta take you shopping. Next weekend, girlfriend, get your tailbones up here. I'm taking you to Rothschild's and we are _so_ going to blow a hole in that credit card of yours. If you're going to be arm-candy, babe, we have to have you looking _good_."

* * *

.

So…things are developing. Erik's so reluctant to come out of his shell. Christine is intrigued. And a road trip!

Do let me know what you think. And no, I'll neither confirm nor deny rumors or conjecture. Mwahahahaha.

~R

.

For this chapter's author spotlight, I'd like to call out SpookyMormanHellDream, and her story _Blackbird_. Dr. Erik Riley is a man with a past and troubled present. Will he allow Christine to help?


	10. Chapter 10 Dr V Explains, Preparations

**A/N** —Christine's not necessarily _discounting_ all hope of a relationship with Raoul, but she's 28 and knows it's better to proceed with caution. Meg's warning is also leaving her a bit paranoid. Raoul isn't used to women not falling at his feet, because hey, what's not to love? Gorgeous, rich, hard working, charming, _nice_... Oh yes, I love Meg here too. She's a lot of fun to write, sassy and outspoken, very self-confident, the friend who will help you hide the bodies afterward.

Onward...hope you enjoy!

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chapter 10 Dr. V Explains, Preparations

2016, 2017

The end of the summer term raced toward them like a speeding semi—overloaded and unavoidable. Christine had finals in all three classes, as well as a problem set due in Stat, a paper in Euro, and hours to put in at the listening lab for French. She managed to see Raoul for lunch most days, and they were able to carve out a couple hours one Saturday afternoon to go walking in the park, just to have a few minutes to de-stress.

"Econ is going to be the death of me," he muttered. "That man does not seem to realize that most of us do have other classes or jobs." He leaned back on the park bench, stretching and popping his back. "God, I need some time at the gym, but it's not happening this week."

She moved to stand behind him, her hands massaging his shoulders and neck. "You're way too tense."

He shut his eyes blissfully. "You have no idea how good that feels. I think I need a new pillow or something; my neck is so stiff."

She completed her massage and leaned down, wrapping both arms around his chest and kissed his cheek. "Come on, let's walk."

They wandered the length of the park, crossing the high-water bridge and returning along the trail discussing their plans during the intercession. Raoul was heading home to Seattle for the three-week break as Philippe had demanded his presence at the office in order to take a short vacation for himself. "I won't be able to get away at all," he sighed, "but it will keep my mom and brother happy. For at least a few weeks, anyway. What are you doing?"

She paused to touch a smooth tree branch. "I'll probably go up and stay with Meg a couple days at some point—it's my turn to go see her. Probably ought to check with the people who are leasing my parents' house. Going to that concert in Boulder, of course. And then getting ready for the fall term, I suppose." She shrugged.

Raoul's face had tightened at the mention of the concert. "I still don't like that much. It just seems a little odd, him paying for you to go down there and all."

Christine sighed. "I'm just driving him down; it's no big deal."

"But what if…"

"Raoul, I'm the one driving the car. I have a cell phone. We'll have to stop for gas plenty of times. We'll be in a big hotel in a major city. He's a nice guy. It's fine."

"I still don't like it," he grumbled.

She grinned suddenly at him. "Don't be all Neanderthal on me. It's a gorgeous day, and we don't have much time left. Race you to the pavilion!"

* * *

Christine let the Task Rabbit office know she was accepting only the errands from Dr. Valerius and Dr. Martin until finals were over. Oddly, Dr. Martin was silent.

One sunny afternoon she had a grocery delivery to Dr. Valerius and sat talking for a few minutes afterwards. The older lady offered her the usual tomatoes, cucumbers, and zucchini from her backyard garden, and Christine gratefully accepted the fresh vegetables. The zucchini were at the stage where the vines had completely taken over one section of the garden and were threatening an incursion on the others. The dark green cylinders ranged in an ominous array from pickle sized to having delusions of becoming baseball bats. Dr. V was desperate to give them away.

They were sitting in the front room comparing notes from their days in the classroom when an idea occurred and her thoughts raced. The late Dr. Valerius had been in the music department. There was just a chance…

"Well, I'd best be going," Christine said with mock cheerfulness, crossing her fingers silently at the white lie. "I still have to go by Dr. Martin's house after this." She scooted to the edge of her chair.

As usual, Martha Valerius caught the name. "Dr. Erik Martin, perhaps?" she asked curiously.

"Yes," Christine said, feigning surprise. "Do you know him?"

"Oh yes. If it's the same man. He was a friend of my husband's once. Have you met him? A very tall man?" she asked delicately.

Desdemona was twining herself languidly around her ankles. Christine made a pretense of bending over to scratch the cat's chin, hiding her face. "Yes. Very tall, dark hair."

Martha Valerius nodded. "How is he, these days?"

Christine looked up. There was an odd tone in the old lady's voice. "He's very thin," she said slowly. "Very pale. Actually, he doesn't look well at all."

The elderly lady nodded sadly. "I'm not surprised. He's had such an unfortunate life in these last few years."

She continued to scratch the cat's ears, holding her silence, counting on her employer's willingness to talk.

"He was married, you know, to Carla Guiducelli, the opera singer." She gave Christine an inquiring look, but the girl shook her head. "No? Well, ten years ago she was an up-and-coming singer, quite well known in musical circles here in the state, just beginning to get noticed by the larger houses. She was a pretty thing, all long fiery red hair and green eyes, and such a lovely figure. She was stunning, oh my yes, and he was besotted with her, even flew her around on his little plane…one of those Cessnas or Pipers or something. I remember it had four seats and he was so very proud of it."

"What happened?" Christine asked softly.

Dr. Valerius's eyes grew sad. "They crashed in the mountains somewhere outside of Cheyenne. There was a bad storm. The crash left him badly injured. Frankly, I can't imagine how either of them ever survived, but they said it was due to his skill as a pilot." She paused. "Have you ever seen his face?" she asked delicately.

Christine shook her head. "No, but I've noticed he wears a mask or a prosthetic, sometimes. Why?"

"My dear, he hasn't got a face. I've never seen him, myself, but Stephen did, one time, when he went to visit in the hospital. He said it was awful, like something from a horror movie. Smashed and scarred and twisted, hardly any skin or muscle left."

Christine blanched. "Oh my God," she whispered, horrified.

"Please don't ever mention this, that I told you," the elderly lady pleaded.

"No, of course not," she soothed. "But I'm glad you've let me know. I'll be very careful what I say around him." She paused. "What happened to his wife?"

Dr. Valerius's faded blue eyes were sad. "My dear, she died a little while later. From complications of the accident, they said."

Christine hugged the old lady at the door. "Thanks for giving me a heads-up. It really helps."

Martha Valerius smiled. "You're welcome, my dear. And here…take him a zucchini."

* * *

That evening, Christine pulled the laptop toward her and began a series of Google searches.

Carla Guiducelli

 _Fresh Talent in Horrific Crash_

 _Singer Injured in Winter Storm_

 _Carla Guiducelli in Mountain Accident_

And others. She randomly clicked on one link. A news article loaded, showing two photos, one of the wreckage of a small plane, strewn across a rocky hill. Another was that of a woman. Christine leaned forward and clicked to enlarge it.

Dr. Valerius had not exaggerated. Carla Guiducelli was beautiful. Clutching white furs around her face, with full lips, smoky green eyes, and red hair upswept into an elaborate style, she leaned into the camera pouting. Another photo showed a woman her father would have described as a "Pocket Venus," all lush curves and a come-hither expression right out of a film noir actress. Feeling vaguely sick, Christine clicked the grey X in the top corner.

No wonder he didn't want to fly. And now there would be all of those people at this Opera fundraiser, remembering Carla…and looking at her in comparison.

* * *

.

* * *

"Ms Daae?" That wonderful deep voice carried well over the phone line. "Pardon the interruption of your evening. I thought it might be appropriate if we discussed the upcoming trip, perhaps over dinner tomorrow night. Are you amenable to that suggestion?"

"Yes, that's fine," she replied. "Where would you like to meet?"

There was a slight pause. "I thought perhaps my house, if you are comfortable with that. I don't often go out in public." His voice had tightened unmistakably.

"Your house is fine. Do I need to bring anything?"

"No, just yourself." She could hear the faint echo of relief. "Do you like fish? Or veal? Chicken?"

 _Was he trying to impress her?_ "Fish is fine. Or chicken. No veal…I don't eat baby animals. Our science teacher at the school where I taught always joked that birds and fish were the descendents of dinosaurs, and since their ancestor ate mine, I don't mind returning the favor." She was rewarded by a low chuckle.

"Fish it is, then. Have you any allergies I need to be aware of?"

"Not a thing," she assured him. I'll see you tomorrow."

"6:00-ish, then. A bientôt."

"A bientôt," she echoed. He had remembered she was taking French.

* * *

Rather nervously, Christine dressed for dinner at Dr. Martin's house. "Be comfortable," he'd said over the phone, yet she was anything but. Finally, Christine selected a blue short-sleeved sweater and slim cream-colored pants with sandals. Surely that combination would work. She could always toss her navy cardigan in the car in case his house was as cold as the university classrooms.

He met her at the door before she could ring the chimes, dressed casually in a long-sleeved dark green polo shirt and tan slacks, and the facial prosthetic. "Ms. Daae. Welcome."

"Hello." She stepped into the living room and looked around with a smile. "You've added some furniture since I was here last."

"Yes." He turned toward the kitchen. "Please, make yourself at home."

A new dark brown leather sofa with a matching side chair now occupied the center of the room, turned to face the grand piano. A fireplace dominated the far wall, and heavy draperies hung at the windows, pushed to the sides to let in the summer sunlight. She lowered her purse to the coffee table and was drawn in by the wall of bookshelves.

"Can I get you a glass of white wine?" he called from the kitchen.

Christine flicked her braid over her shoulder. "Yes, please, but only a little, and if it's not too acidic. I'm afraid I'm not much of a wine person." She ran her fingers lightly along the bookshelves. Travelogues, histories, mythology, several classics and biographies, a few best sellers, hundreds of volumes, all showing signs of use. He was apparently quite well read. But for all the books and new furnishings, it was still an oddly impersonal room. No photographs sat on the fireplace mantle, no art or pictures hung on the walls.

"Here, try this." She had not even heard him approach. Christine took the fragile stemmed glass and sipped the golden wine tentatively, then smiled.

"Um. This is good, Dr. Martin, thank you."

He dipped his head with a faint smile, and encouraged, she continued. "I said I'm not much of a wine-drinker, and it's true. We'd always have this terrible boxed wine at faculty get-togethers, and it was awful. Like aged in plywood for fifteen minutes awful."

"Philistines," he scoffed but there was an amused twinkle in his dark eyes. "Do enjoy this, then. I have to keep an eye on the oven."

From the doorway between the kitchen and dining area he watched her slim figure explore his bookshelves and gently touch the gleaming piano before drifting over to the corner where a new small table and chairs sat, a partially completed chess game on the surface.

"Do you play?" he asked, and she shook her head, turning to cross the room to him.

"No, but I enjoy watching."

"Chess would be deadly dull to watch."

She titled her head up, smiling tantalizingly. "I enjoy watching the players."

.

Dinner consisted of a baked fish dish, tender and flaky, surrounded in a golden-brown mysterious sauce, fresh green beans, a basket of various types of hot rolls, and iced tea. He held her chair as she sat down.

"I didn't bring you this," she teased, and he smiled.

"No, a friend was at the farmers' market yesterday, and thoughtfully gave me a call. He ended up staying for a while, hence the chess game."

"Cloth napkins, too," she smiled, unfurling it into her lap.

"One should make an effort, don't you think?" The dark eyes gleamed as he picked up his fork.

Christine took a bite and shut her eyes in pleasure. "Dr. Martin, this is wonderful. You're a fantastic cook."

"I am pleased you like it," he said gravely. "Do you mind discussing the trip while we eat?"

"Not at all. When do you want to leave?"

He got up and went into the kitchen, returning with a tablet. When it powered up, he pushed it across the table to her. "I thought we'd stay at the St. Julien—it's where the meeting and concert will be held. If that's fine, I'll reserve two rooms for us tomorrow."

"Looks fine," she said, flipping through the photos and informational pages. "Pretty nice, in fact."

"It should be. I want to attend the society's meetings that afternoon. You don't need to accompany me unless you just want to. I'd recommend you take some time and explore Boulder. It's an interesting city. We'll drive my car, if that's acceptable, and it will be at your disposal on Saturday while I'm busy."

"Ooh, they have a spa and afternoon tea. I might just do that instead," she mused aloud.

"Whatever you would like. I've looked at the maps; it's at least an eleven-hour drive. Would you be all right with us leaving the day before, rather than trying to get up and leave at some horribly early hour? It would mean two nights in Boulder, though."

She nodded. "It's fine. We're on intercession and I haven't anything else going on."

"Your family?"

Christine turned the fork in her fingers, staring down at her plate without expression. "I don't have any, really, except for a best friend from my ballet-lesson days. My parents were killed last year in a bad auto accident, and I was…am…an only child. I have a couple elderly aunts and very distant cousins, but that's it. We're not close." Her voice was very flat and even.

"I'm sorry," he said, sounding genuinely distressed. "I did not mean to bring up a painful subject."

She blinked hard, several times. "No, it's ok. One of these days I'll get over it."

He reached across the table and touched her arm awkwardly in comfort. "One never really gets over it," he said grimly. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

"Ms. Daae." She looked up. Dr. Martin looked gave her a faint, apprehensive twisted smile. "There is one more thing I wanted to discuss with you, before the trip. It's a…rather personal matter. No no, not with you, me," he said hastily, at her alarmed look.

She nodded slowly and he took a deep breath. "I'm sure you've noticed…this," he gestured uncomfortably toward his face, and she nodded again. "I wear a …facial prosthetic as my face is …injured, badly…from an accident." He swallowed. This was more difficult than he'd anticipated.

Christine set her fork down. "Go on," she said gently, and he nodded, his voice tired.

"I wear this one when I'm out in public…or like with you, tonight. But it has to be glued on, and it's rather uncomfortable…hot, and painful and itchy, after a while. When I'm here alone, I either don't wear it at all, or there is a special porous plastic mask I use. I think you saw it, once, when you first came out here with a delivery."

She nodded. "Yes, I remember that. It was white."

"Yes." Erik forced himself to breathe again. "If it wouldn't make you uncomfortable, I'd prefer to wear that one while we drive. I'll have to wear this during that Saturday for the meetings and concert, and I'd really rather not have to endure it three days in a row."

There, he'd said it, made himself vulnerable to this young woman he barely knew. His fist clenched tightly against his trouser leg under the table, and he looked up.

Her face was sympathetic. "That's fine…I don't mind. In fact, if you'd rather not wear it at all while we're in the car, it won't bother me."

"No!" She jumped and her eyes widened, and he made an effort to control his voice. "No…I'm sorry, but no. You will never see my face. It is…badly damaged, not pleasant at all to look upon. And painful…I need to keep it covered." He fought to keep his voice level, calm. She didn't know…how could she? Beneath the mask, his face was monstrous, distorted, ugly. And she would never need know. He spoke again. "But thank you…it was a kind thought."

He deliberately turned the conversation to other topics afterwards; music, the renovation of the Student Union basement, and changes in town since she'd last lived there. Dessert turned out to be homemade Crème brûlée with mixed berries on the side, and Christine expressed her appreciation.

"This is delicious. Here I was feeling pretty smug about my own cooking skills, but you've put me to shame. However did you caramelize the sugar?"

"Under the broiler," he admitted. "I had to watch it like a hawk. Burnt the first trial anyway," he said, and she laughed.

He declined her offer to help with the clean-up and escorted her to the porch. "Thank you for coming over and working out the details," he said. "I'm quite looking forward to this trip. I haven't been out of town quite some time."

Christine smiled up in to his dark eyes. "I enjoyed it. We'll have to do dinner again sometime."

"Yes. Goodnight, Ms Daae." She gave him another brilliant smile and was gone.

* * *

.

So…a bit more background here! Please do let me know what you think!

Next week…shopping and a road trip!

For this week's author spotlight, I'd like to send a shout-out to Wheel of Fish. Her story _Unsung_ had me haunting my inbox for more updates, and her story-in-progress, _The Ivory Tower_ , is certainly intriguing!


	11. Chapter 11 Shopping and a Road Trip

**A/N** —Ooooh. That last chapter seems to have been a surprise. I did warn you that this would have some different elements in it! Same cast, slightly different roles…but the same plot points. :D I'm so glad you're giving it a chance! Trust me. Hang in there. All Will Be Revealed in due time, as Christine finds it out.  
Hugs as always to those awesome people who review. Y'all make my day and encourage me to post the next chapters.

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chapter 11 Shopping and a Road Trip

2016\. 2017

The summer term ended with the usual flurry of examinations and final papers, and the compacted feeling of stress, no sleep, and poor food choices.

The campus itself seemed to empty almost immediately as students went home for the interim break. Christine spent a day sleeping and lying in the sun poolside, enjoying the peace and reflecting that the sense of freedom of the end of a school year was something you never really stopped enjoying.

Raoul had planned a flight back home the Tuesday after finals, giving them only the weekend together before he had to depart.

"I don't know, Chris. I think you ought to sell." He cut a piece of ribeye and speared a mushroom before taking a bite. "Seems to me you've got an interested buyer who'll meet your asking price, and it's not like it was your childhood home or anything, right?" He looked quizzically over the table at her.

They'd ended up meeting at Mantovani's Steakhouse, back in the city, where Raoul had looked askance at the tiny filet she'd ordered. Christine had not been there before; it was downtown in the area of steel and glass high-rise professional buildings and government offices. She'd been slightly disappointed that Meg hadn't been able to join them. "Rehearsals, you know," her friend had apologized, rolling her hazel eyes.

It had been a long day. She'd started out early that morning, driving up to the capital city and meeting with the family lawyer, renewing the Jeffries' lease and another year on the storage locker that held her parents' belongings. Her parents had loved the frontier roots and Victorian buildings of the historic town they'd chosen for retirement and never really had to chance to explore.

Three and a half hours of driving later had put Christine at Meg's apartment, dropping bags in the small spare room her friend kept for visitors. They'd had a couple hours to talk and make plans before the willowy dancer had departed for afternoon rehearsals and Christine to meet Raoul.

She cut a bite, dragging it slowly through the sauce. "No, it wasn't my childhood home. Mom and Dad sold it about three or four years back, downsizing, you know. But it's like my last link with them, like I'll really truly be an orphan when it's gone."

He frowned. "I know you don't need the money, but it's so far away, and it's just one more thing on your list."

"It really doesn't take any of my time, you know, Raoul. The lawyer takes care of all the paperwork and that company does any needed maintenance."

"Then why mess with it?" he said practically. "Sell it, go through that storage locker, and be," he caught himself. He'd almost said _be done with it_. He changed thoughts. "Be able to move on a bit. It can't be healthy for you to always have to drive up there and take care of your parents' things."

She changed the subject. "Speaking of, when do you fly out?"

He grimaced. "8:00. Hence the steak. Got to fortify myself before returning to the bosom of the family."

"Will it really be that bad?" she asked sympathetically.

Raoul turned the plate and savaged his baked potato. "Well, it won't be fun."

* * *

Meg had the next day off and soon made good on her threat to take Christine shopping. She zipped the little Fiat into a parking place, shut off the engine, and turned to grin at Christine. "Are you ready, girlfriend? Because we have some serious shopping to do."

Rothschild's was a small specialty store, all French blue and mahogany, cream and gold, deep carpets and subtly scented air. Christine felt very much out of her depth, but Meg sailed in, head high, and swooped toward the service desk.

"Meghan Giry…Charlotte should be waiting for me," she said smoothly, tapping pale lacquered fingernails on the counter. A minute later a slim woman with an engaging smile and sleek dark chignon approached.

"Ms. Giry." She nodded a greeting. "How may I help you today?" she murmured, and Meg gestured toward Christine.

"My friend is in need of an evening gown. Blue, we think. For a formal dinner and concert."

The slim woman swept Christine up and down with her dark eyes and nodded. "Yes, definitely blue. Follow me, please."

"Who on Earth is she?" Christine whispered frantically to Meg as they walked.

"Charlotte Reaves. My personal shopper. She is the best, let me assure you."

"You have a personal shopper?" Christine hissed, and Meg laughed.

"But of course. She knows everything…I can trust her to pick up what I need."

Christine rolled her eyes. "I keep forgetting you have money."

"Not just money, dear; oil money, even better."

Christine smothered a laugh. Meg's great-grandfather had been a French immigrant whose son became a Western oil baron, a land investor, and cattle king. He'd even briefly owned a railroad, seemingly possessed of a genius for knowing in what to invest and when to sell. His daughter Adele was heavily involved in theater, and Meg, the only granddaughter, had been free to pursue her own career as a dancer. Meg had inherited the hard business sense of the family, and very few knew her secret.

After ascertaining Christine's size and preferences, Charlotte Reaves brought out a series of stunning evening dresses. Meg made her try them all on, but only one had caught Christine's heart. Flowing and floor-length, with a fitted ruched bodice with asymmetrical sequined appliqués and mesh from the décolletage to cap sleeves, the gown was a dark smoky blue that made her skin look creamy and eyes darker. Christine spun around in it, eyes shining, and Charlotte Reaves nodded approvingly.

"That one, yes. Because you feel beautiful in it, don't you?" she smiled.

"Yes." Christine ducked her head bashfully. "What about shoes?"

"Gold lamé," said Meg wickedly from the chair where she'd been watching.

"God no," Christine burst out, and Meg grinned. "Black, please," she said firmly.

Charlotte Reaves tilted her head, thinking, and returned a few minutes later with a dark blue velvet/taffeta wrap, a tiny clutch purse of black velvet and gold filigree, and several possible pairs of shoes.

Two hours later, Christine and Meg emerged. Meg had acquired a raspberry colored dress, a confection of frothy ruffles that should not have worked for her but somehow did, and showed off her impossibly long legs. Christine had added a pair of tan linen trousers and an ivory blouse, and a black severely tailored cocktail dress. Both young women had splurged on indulgent silky undergarments and felt like princesses.

Stowing their boxes in the back of the tiny Fiat, the two returned to Meg's ivy-covered red brick building and climbed the steps up to the private balcony. "How do you keep this so neat?" Christine wondered aloud, looking around the ultra-modern, glossy apartment, and Meg laughed.

"I'm never home, you know that. Now, what about dinner?"

Christine made a face. "I'll bet you have nothing in that refrigerator besides olives and white wine."

"Wrong again, dear, I believe there is also a can of iced coffee in there." She picked up a tablet from the countertop and rubbed her thumbs over it, nails clicking. "How about we get delivery?"

An hour later, they were both slumped down on the suede sofa in comfy sweat pants and t-shirts, watching an old Cary Grant movie, just like old times.

* * *

A black and silver Mercedes Benz E300 sat waiting in the driveway. Christine pulled up next to it and parked, just as the garage door began to rise. Erik gestured toward her and she rolled down the window. "If you'd like, you're welcome to put your car in my garage for the weekend."

"Thanks!" she called back, and pulled into the spot as he moved away. He triggered the trunk latch with a remote as she hopped out, opening the Honda's back hatch.

"Just one suitcase?" he said approvingly, and she nodded. "And the dress bag. I didn't dare fold that dress into the suitcase. Not after what I paid for it." She grinned.

He looked pained. "I did not intend for you to undergo any expense for this trip, Ms Daae."

She tucked the case and dress bag inside the trunk carefully, and turned to him. "Now stop that. I don't mind at all, and there was no way I was going to let you buy me a dress on top of everything else you're doing. It's fine, don't worry about it. I can well afford a dress."

"If you say so." He closed the lid smoothly and looked down at her. "Do you need to go inside for anything before we depart? I must set the house alarm."

"I'm good." Christine tucked her purse under the driver's seat and busied herself adjusting it. Mercy, the man had long legs. And what a terrifying car. _Please, God, don't let me scratch it._ She had just buckled in when he opened the door and settled into the seat beside her, tossing the cane contemptuously into the back. He placed two water bottles in the console and pushed a black leather satchel under his own seat.

"Ready, Ms Daae?"

She smiled at him. "Please, if we're going to be in a car together for the next twelve hours, you're going to have to call me Christine."

"Christine." He nodded. "Then you must call me Erik."

"Pleased to meet you, Erik," she laughed. "Let's get this road trip going. I assume you'll be DJ. I like just about everything, so whatever you want to listen to is fine with me." She pressed the ignition button and Erik selected a classical station from the satellite radio, adjusting the volume low enough for pleasant conversation.

Erik proved to be a good travel companion, keeping an eye on the route via his phone's GPS. The route along Highway 191 was beautiful, all mountains and winding roads. He was pleasantly surprised to find that she was able to go for long periods of time in comfortable silence, not feeling the need to insert needless chatter as the miles passed. One or the other would point out wildlife or some distant object on the horizon, and he would note her fingers waving along with the music occasionally as they drove.

They took the route through Yellowstone National Park, discussing the consequences of a supervolcanic eruption and pausing for bison. "I'd love to come back here again," Christine mused. "I haven't been since my parents brought me and Meg—my best friend—down here when we were teenagers."

They stopped in Teton Village for a brief break. Christine had been watching Erik lean over and rub his knee, and wondered if the leg was getting stiff and painful from being in the same position for so long. She drove out along the lake drive and found a semi-vacant parking area and stopped. Gratefully, Erik walked around the car several times, stretching and flexing his bad leg. She'd chosen a spot with no one around, and he was touched at her concern.

They'd passed through Jackson Hole when she glanced over at him. Erik had propped one elbow up on the car door and was leaning on his chin, long fingers aligned next to the stark white mask.

"So, if I can ask, what _did_ you do to your leg, Erik?"

He sighed and turned away from the mountain view. "Some years ago I was in a rather bad accident. That's where"—he gestured vaguely at his face—"this happened as well. Among other things, my leg was crushed…the doctors put it back together with plates and screws. It took forever to heal. For a while I didn't think I'd ever walk again, but it got better eventually. Then—do you remember that last snowstorm we had last spring? The one with all the ice?" She nodded, and he continued. "I'd been up to the university to see a colleague and slipped, going out the door. Caught my foot on something and twisted going down. Spiral fractured the tibia, cracked the patella, tore my ACL wrenched the metal about in the femur, and a couple other things. God, what a mess. More surgery, then a cast, then therapy all over again." He shook his head, his mouth in a thin bitter line. "It aches like the very devil with every weather change. I suppose I should move to Sedona or something, but this is home."

"Lord. I'm so sorry," she said with genuine sympathy. "Have you any idea when you'll be allowed to drive?"

"Ready to be away from me so soon?" he asked, but there was an edge to the bantering tone.

"No, of course not," she said, glancing at him. "It's just that it must be so frustrating for you."

"In a word, yes." He was drumming fingers along the edge of the window, and turned back to the view. He sighed. "I really don't know. It should be soon; obviously I was able to back the car out of the garage without injuring myself, but the doctor doesn't want me twisting it at all. I have an appointment right after we get back. Hopefully he'll clear me then."

"And then you won't need me any more," Christine said, and was surprised at the sudden twinge of hurt.

His dark eyes flickered toward her. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."

After lunch in Rock Springs, they decided to just press on into Boulder. "Let me know if your leg gets to hurting," she'd ordered and he'd given her an irritated look. She decided not to press the issue; if he wanted to stiffen up and ache it was, after all, his business.

They pulled into the long curved driveway of the hotel as dusk was falling. A valet hurried toward them and Christine stepped out, arching her back and lifting her hands overhead in a ballet stretch. Erik walked around to the rear of the car, removing suitcases and a hat, which he pulled low over the masked side of his face. He slung her dress bag over his shoulder, ignoring her protests, and they headed up the walkway and into the main lobby.

"Wow," she commented softly, looking at the arched ceiling and heavy columns. She could feel his rising tension as they approached the desk, and after a quick glance at his set face, Christine stepped in front and smiled brightly at the concierge. "Dr Erik Martin and Ms Christine Daae, please. We're checking in. Two rooms. We should have reservations," she said firmly. Behind her Erik tucked the two rolling bags against a column and waited, his face turned away from the desk, while the attendant tapped on her computer screen and then swiped electronic keys.

"Here you are, rooms 418 and 420. Up those elevators to your right. Have a wonderful stay!"

Christine took the card keys and flashed her another polite smile. She passed a key envelope to Erik, who took it in silence. When they were safely in the elevator, he turned to her, looking down with a combination of curiosity and some other, warmer emotion.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "That was very kind of you, but I _can_ manage…I'm used to the stares by now."

She gave his arm a quick squeeze. "It's ok…and you shouldn't have to."

Rooms 418 and 420 were the last two located on that side of the building. Her room had a king sized bed with a four-poster framework, a television set tucked into a cabinet, a desk, a comfortable reading chair and lamp, and a slate-tiled bathroom with a deep tub and separate glassed-in shower stall.

Her phone rang a minute or so after the door clicked shut. She scooped it up from the bed and walked to the window, pulling back the curtains and watching the last of the sunset cast shadows on the mountain.

"Hello?"

"Christine. Is your room to your liking?" There was no mistaking that gorgeous deep velvet voice.

"Hi Erik. Yes, it's fine. It's wonderful, in fact. I love the view."

"Good." He sounded pleased. "I will see you tomorrow, then."

"Goodnight," she smiled.

"Sleep well."

* * *

Pictures of Christine's blue dress will be up next week on my Tumblr page for this chapter, btw.

Up next week…Dinner and a Concert...and Erik begins to admit to himself he might have more than an employer's interest in this woman.

This week's author spotlight goes to Melancholy's Child. _The Choices That Define Us_ was excellent, a nicely long story, and her current one, _Beneath the Shadows_ , promises lots of angst!

Thank you for reading, and please review!


	12. Chapter 12 Dinner and a Concert

**A/N** —Thank you all for your reviews last week! Pictures of Erik's car, the hotel (it's a real place), and Christine's dress are all up on my Tumblr.

And now, enjoy some phluff. It's about time.

* * *

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The Measure of a Man

Chapter 12 Dinner and a Concert

2016\. 2017

When Christine came downstairs the next morning, Erik was already waiting for her, seated in a partially enclosed booth half-hidden behind the morning paper, an empty plate and cup of coffee in front of him. She dropped her room key and phone on the table and went to browse the buffet, returning a few minutes later with fruit, yogurt, bacon, and muffins.

"Just tea and juice, please," she smiled up at the server, and took a seat, spreading the pale peach colored napkin in her lap.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked casually, observing her over his coffee cup. He'd been on the verge of texting her.

"Just fine. The bed has one of those sleep systems and fleece mattress toppers. It was like lying on a cloud. I may have to buy one for home."

He folded the paper, laying it to one side. "Any plans for the day?"

"If you're still ok with me borrowing the car, I'd like to go see the indoor butterfly gardens and then probably the Celestial Seasonings Tea Factory Tour. Silly, I know, but they sound fun. The Park Street Mall is within walking distance from here, so that will work for the afternoon. The hotel does afternoon tea; so I might just come back here early and try it." She set her plate aside and swept back her hair. "What about you?"

He cradled the coffee cup in his long, bony hands. "Meetings. I've been spotted already and have been requested to attend. I used to be on the Board of Directors long ago," he grimaced, "and so they claim to want me back. It's not happening, but they can feel free to try."

"Good luck to them, then," her eyes sparkled up at him in amusement.

He tossed his napkin on the table and left a tip. "Shall we?"

"You're looking sharp today, for a man who is determined to avoid responsibilities," she teased, as they headed toward the elevator. He was wearing a grey suit and white, open-collared shirt and the facial prosthetic. Erik twirled the cane and she laughed.

"They shall have no luck, never fear," he smiled grimly. "Once was enough." He fished in his breast pocket. "Here is the card for the valet parking. Give this to the man at the valet station and they'll bring the car around."

She nodded, taking the slip. "What time is dinner tonight?"

"Seven, I think. I'll text you if it changes. Have fun."

* * *

Six hours later, Christine returned to the hotel. Boulder was a lovely city, a mix of the 1800s mining town it once was and the new. She'd mostly gone window shopping in the outdoor mall, not really needing anything but enjoying the walk. The hotel was delightfully cool, and she gave a longing look toward the spa. Maybe later, if there was time. Right now, she wanted to sit and relax.

Afternoon tea was being served on the terrace this afternoon. She'd skipped lunch on purpose for this treat. Christine was seated and handed the menu card. She fanned herself with it a moment, then eagerly began looking over the choices.

"Pardon me…is this seat taken?"

She looked up, happily smiling at the owner of that low, rich voice. "Hallo, Erik. No, of course not, please sit down."

He lowered himself carefully into the seat, hooking the cane over the back of another chair, and gazed at her in quiet admiration. Slim and neat in linen trousers and an ivory blouse open at the throat, with a gold necklace disappearing down the valley of her breasts, she was quite attractive and, he suspected, utterly unaware of his regard.

The waiter brought a three-tiered tray containing tiny crustless sandwiches, scones, pastries, and two chocolates. Behind him came a second waiter bearing a pot of tea and dishes of rough sugar lumps, a pitcher of milk, jam, and clotted cream.

Christine sat up, tucking her legs gracefully sideways and reaching for the pot, pouring for them both. She handed him a cup. "How were your meetings?"

"Dreadful," he assured her. "And yes, I avoided any commitments, committees, or appointments."

They had, indeed, been dreadful. He had been well aware of the whispers and abrupt silences, arrogantly ignoring both. Masterson's note had hinted that they would consider him again for a Board position, but he suspected they would be far happier with a substantial monetary donation. _In memory of_ …he thought bitterly. He forced his thoughts away from the meetings and back to present.

Christine laughed softly at his response and reached for the tray. "Sad for them, I'm sure. What do you suppose the sandwiches are?"

Erik bit carefully into one. "Salmon, I think. Not bad."

She tried another. "Egg and 'cress. Mmmm."

Their conversation was relaxed, unhurried. She described the glorious butterfly garden and told him amusing anecdotes about the tea tour, and mentioned she'd like to drive around the Mapleton Historical District before leaving the next day, that is, if he had any interest in old houses. "It's just a driving tour, I don't want to go inside, just look at them. It's the history teacher in me, you know." She smiled mischievously, and he nodded in agreement, his dark eyes never leaving her face.

"If you wish."

"I've always wanted to do afternoon tea somewhere," she confessed later, with a shy smile. "It's all those British murder mysteries, I'm sure. I'd love to go to England some day. Or France. Or anywhere in Europe, really."

"You've never been?"

'No. I've been up to Canada, to Banff, but that's about it. Mom and Dad never really wanted to leave the country, and I couldn't exactly afford it on a teacher's salary." She slathered jam and clotted cream on scone. "This is heavenly. I shall pretend I'm in the Cotswolds."

"Don't spoil your appetite for dinner," he said mildly and she laughed.

"Not a chance. Do you know how many miles I walked shopping this afternoon? I've burned these calories and then some."

Erik watched her quietly and wondered what the night would bring. She was so different, unselfconscious and easy to be with, seemingly unconcerned with his face, his money, his past. But then, she knew nothing of his past and he was paying for her to be in his present, and he would be a fool to forget that.

* * *

 _It was just nerves._ Just nerves. She was not coming down with the flu or food poisoning or anything of the like. Just nerves.

Christine took a deep breath and lifted the hem of her dress, walking softly, trying rather desperately to not attract attention. The stairs seemed endless. _Don't trip don't trip don't trip._ She turned the corner, still descending, and there he was. Tall and lean in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, white high collar and black tie, polished shoes and cummerbund, his dark hair smoothly combed back from his forehead, showing that distinguished touch of silver at the temples. He was still wearing the prosthetic facial piece, and was, she realized with a sudden heady rush, quite devastatingly handsome.

Erik stood at the bottom of the stairwell, waiting patiently for her. He pulled the edges of the French cuffs straight, glanced again toward the stairwell, and froze.

She was, in a word, stunning. Tall and slender, the smoky blue dress clung to her curves and whispered around her feet as she walked toward him shyly. She wore high dark heels, lessening the awkwardness of his height and giving them much more the appearance of being a couple. Her chestnut brown hair was pulled up into a French knot, revealing the long graceful curvature of her neck, where tiny tendrils softly curled, having escaped their pins. Shimmering dangling earrings swayed, winking as they caught the light.

She stopped in front of him, and wordlessly Erik transferred his cane to his other hand and winged one arm, hoping that he did not stumble over his own feet. The collar suddenly felt much too tight. She laid her hand carefully in the crook of his elbow, and together they turned to walk into the dining room.

She sensed his pleased appreciation and smiled faintly to herself. As they approached the maître d', he leaned down and murmured softly in her ear, "You are a vision of loveliness tonight, my dear."

Christine squeezed his arm gently. "You mean I clean up well?" she whispered back teasingly and was rewarded by his low, velvet chuckle. "Oh, much more than that."

She blushed and looked up into his gleaming eyes. "You're pretty dashing yourself, sir. I will be fighting off women all night, I suspect."

He looked down at her, strangely somber. "I rather doubt that."

They were seated at a small round table complete with flowers and candles. Erik pulled her chair out for her, and took her dark blue wrap, settling it neatly on the chair back. Christine placed her small velvet clutch in her lap and accepted the proffered menu. She glanced up; Erik and the sommelier were in a technical sounding discussion about wine, and then the man left with a murmured, "Very good, sir."

Perhaps eighty to one hundred elegantly dressed couples were seated around the ivory and gold room. It had been decorated to look like an Italian piazza with dark ochre stucco walls, trellises, urns, and trailing ivy. To their right, a small elevated stage framed with greenery awaited. A people few passed by, nodding or greeting her companion and glancing at Christine with curiosity. There were also several direct stares and averted glances. Erik, she noted, had chosen the side that kept his face turned away from the crowd, looking increasingly uncomfortable.

Christine met his eyes and blushed. She was stunningly pretty, a flush of heightened color on her cheeks, tiny sparkling earrings swinging mesmerizingly, and her lovely eyes were smiling at him. At him. Erik was saved from an awkward comment by the arrival of the wine, and then they busied themselves ordering dinner. She slid her hand across to him and squeezed his fingers.

"Erik, this is amazing. Thank you so much. I've never been anywhere like this."

He returned the pressure on her fingers and just as quickly released them. "I'm glad you are enjoying yourself, my dear. Perhaps the long drive was indeed worth it."

He ate carefully, chewing mainly on the side away from his damaged cheek. Conversation around the room was subdued, a genteel background murmur with quietly tinkling silverware and china. Minutes after the dessert plates vanished and coffee or tea was served, the lights flickered and dimmed. Across the room, chairs were rearranged at tables to face the small stage. The head of the Opera Society took the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have the great privilege tonight of a very special guest. May I present to you…Joshua Bell." There was enthusiastic applause, and then the concert began.

He opened with Biber's _Passacaglia for Solo Violin_ , Erik noted her rapt attention and allowed himself a slight smile before sinking into the music. At one point in the evening Christine sat watching her silent companion. His eyes were shut, completely absorbed in the plaintive sounds of the violin, the fingers of his left hand moving in patterns along with the music, playing along, she realized. He looked utterly at peace.

After playing four pieces, Joshua Bell chatted briefly with the audience and patrons for several minutes before waving a smiling farewell. The crowd rose as well, applause and conversation swelling. Erik pulled back her chair, offering a hand to help her to her feet and handing her the velvet wrap.

They followed the crowd out into the lobby, where a few couples moved toward the front doors, but many began the ascent up a short escalator to a ballroom, from where the strains of a waltz could be heard. Erik caught her wistful look. "Would you care to go up?" he asked lightly.

Christine blushed. "I'd love to see it, yes, but we don't need to go. Tonight has already been wonderful."

He nodded toward the escalator. "My lady wishes it, so we will go." He glanced down at her. "Can you dance?"

She pulled the skirts up, watching the toothed steps of the escalator warily. "Oh yes. I had years of ballet as a child, and somewhere in there I had to learn a lot of other dances." Sudden realization struck her. "But what about you? Erik? Can you?" she stammered.

"The leg has had a couple hours to rest," he assured her. "I think I can manage one dance."

They entered the ballroom, his long fingers just ghosting above her elbow, not quite touching. Christine hung the chain of the little velvet bag over one shoulder and nodded up at him. Erik took her hand and placed the other on the small of her back. With a swallow and prayer that she didn't screw up, Christine laid her hand on his shoulder. "Ready?" he asked quietly, and she nodded, and then holding her at a respectful distance, she was swept into the whirling crowd.

He held her lightly, the muscles of his arm hard as iron as his body moved smoothly to the music. She relaxed into his arms, her feet following the pattern easily, and looked up at him. Erik's dark eyes stared down at her with an unreadable expression, and she smiled at him, pure joy in her face, and squeezed his shoulder gently.

Afterwards, they walked slowly along the upper terrace in the crisp evening air. Christine leaned on the balustrade, gazing over the city lights, her expression dreamy and distant. Erik leaned one elbow on the railing, alternately looking at the lights and at the woman beside him. She put a hand over his and smiled up at him. "Erik…thank you so much for this weekend. It's been…I don't even know how to describe it. So many things. I've wanted to waltz like that ever since I saw _The King and I_ as a little girl. And that meal, the concert…it's been wonderful. Thank you."

He carefully draped the velvet wrap around her shoulders. "The pleasure has been entirely mine, I can assure you. I have been somewhat of a recluse in recent years. I do appreciate you coming with me this weekend."

He took a deep breath. "Christine, may I ask you a rather personal question?" he said carefully. She nodded and he continued. "You are a lovely and desirable woman. Why are you not married or with someone?"

He was not being rude, but it was an awkward question nonetheless. "I don't really know," she began slowly. "I guess it's because I've never met the right person. I dated in high school and college, but no one ever clicked. Then I started my teaching career—where we're mostly women, you know. The few men I met were either relatives of my students or co-workers, and both of those are bad ideas for dating. My best friend Meg sometimes sets me up, and my dad would occasionally bring home a 'nice young man' from work, but that's been about it. Lots of dates, just no magic, I suppose." She trailed off, feeling suddenly very young and embarrassed. "What about you?" she asked, hoping turnabout was fair play.

Erik flinched. "I am a …I was married once. Years ago. She was in an accident. The same accident as…"

Christine looked up at him, his face suddenly drawn tight and pale in the moonlight. "I'm sorry," she said gently. "I shouldn't have asked."

He looked down at her, his dark eyes unfathomable. "It was a fair question. Shall we go? Tomorrow has a long drive ahead for us." He offered his arm.

She wrapped her hand around his bicep and fell into step beside him, both quiet. He walked her to her hotel room door, waiting to be sure the room was secure. Christine squeezed his hand. "Thank you again for tonight, Erik. I truly enjoyed every minute."

In a sudden, old-fashioned courtly gesture, he raised her hand to his lips and barely kissed her fingers. "You are very welcome. Goodnight, my dear."

"Goodnight," she whispered, and let the door swing shut.

* * *

.

I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but I hope you enjoyed it! Thank you for reading, and please leave it a review.

This week's writer's spotlight goes to Pages of Angels, also known here on FFN as ArtistForever. She has a lengthy WIP called _Mirage of the Opera_ , an interesting take on the story as it is a gender-bent retelling. Her one-shot _The Ten Minutes_ will break your heart. Go check out her work!


	13. Chapter 13 Unmasking

**A/N** —Thank you all for your reviews last week!

Eryn—I'm not going for any particular version of the historical Erik since this is a modern take on the story. He probably does have some elements of them all; most of my stories do. I don't think Erik quite meant to ask Christine that particular question that way…. You'll see more of Nadir here in a couple more chapters; hopefully he'll be more familiar feeling then.

I hope you all enjoy this chapter. It's been written for over a year and I'm rather pleased with it.

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chapter 13 Unmasking

2016\. 2017

Erik sat for a long time that evening, sipping the ridiculously expensive liquor from the room service tray and looking out across the city lights, twinkling against the dark sky and darker mountain range. He could still feel the faint pressure of her slim fingers against his arm, idly stroking the smooth wool of his jacket. Thoughts would rise like bubbles in magma, and ruthlessly he would force them back down. But dreams and thoughts forced into the subconscious tend to rise again at night, and he was no exception.

 _She came to his room, bare toes peeking from under the hem of the smoky blue gown, her voice soft and apologetic. "Erik? Would you please help me with the zipper?" She turned her back, waiting. His hands, so cold and bony, touched her shoulders lightly, but she did not flinch away. Slowly, so slowly, he carefully unzipped the fragile fabric and dared to glance at her. Christine's eyes were shut, a slight smile pulling the corners of her mouth, and he rested his hands on her bare skin, slowly, gently, pushing the soft fabric away. The dress fell with a supple swish to the floor, and she stepped away from it, wearing only an oyster-satin slip and fine stockings. His hands moved forward slowly, caressing her sweet curves and ghosting over the perfect peaks of her breasts, and Christine sighed, leaning back against him. Unable to contain himself, Erik pulled her hips back against his burning hardness and arched against her through the thin layers of fabric that divided them, groaning. She turned in his arms and wound her hands around his neck, stroking his hair and bringing his face down to meet hers. Eyes shut, her mouth grew more heated and searching against his, and her hands moved lower, seeking and releasing the buttons on his pleated white formal shirt. Soft and cool, her fingers stroked his skin, then slowed, touching the ridges and weals of scar tissue. Christine's eyes flew open, horrified at the patchwork of lines and marred flesh. Stepping back, she reached up, snatching off the mask, and began to scream._

He woke with a strangled gasp, shuddering, and rolled over to sit on the side of the bed, head in hands. His face ached with remembered pain; no doubt he'd inadvertently pressed onto that side in his sleep. His body ached as well, an entirely different kind of intense throb from needs too long denied, and he willed the pressure to subside. Driving beside her tomorrow would be torture.

* * *

Morning sun slanted across the breakfast room by the time he came downstairs. It was later than he'd planned but sleep had been evasive last night. Christine looked up from their usual booth, radiant, her blue eyes sparkling up at him and cheeks flushed pink. "Good morning! I saved a paper for you."

She'd already eaten but still had the remains of a pot of breakfast tea. Erik nodded and reached for the paper, scanning the headlines quickly. A server approached with coffee and he raised an eyebrow.

"I saw you come out of the elevator," she smiled.

"Many thanks. Anything good on the buffet?"

"The usual." He returned a few minutes later and busied himself with bacon and eggs. "Are you still up for a quick tour around the historical district before we leave?"

"Yes. There is a brief meeting with the planning group this morning that I'd like to attend, and after that we can depart. I asked for a late check out for us both."

"Ooo. Then maybe I have time to try out the spa after all! They were advertising a massage and facial package."

Erik took a deep breath, forcing his mind away from that image and nodded. "I will see you around eleven-thirty, then."

* * *

Erik had removed the prosthetic for the ride home, and she noticed him periodically gently rubbing at his face under the hard plastic mask. It must be irritated from the day before, she surmised, but refrained from commenting. He'd made it very clear he did not want to remove it in her presence.

They drove at a leisurely pace through several of the older sections of Boulder, admiring the homes along the Mapleton Hill and Chautauqua neighborhoods. The houses with long covered southern-style porches were Christine's favorites. Erik was surprisingly knowledgeable about the construction and styles of the vintage houses, and told her he'd studied architecture at one point.

They stopped in Fort Collins to pick up a late lunch and continued driving. Wyoming could be long stretches of emptiness, and Christine rather hoped to still have some daylight left as they crossed through the mountain range passes. Erik was unusually quiet, and occupied with her own thoughts of the weekend she stayed mostly silent, listening to the radio.

They pulled into a gas station as evening approached. Erik tossed his wallet over to her. "Put it on the MasterCard, if you will. I'm going to take a quick walk."

"Leg bugging you?"

"Yes, and my back." He stepped out of the car, stretching, walking around the dusty automobile, checking the tires. For a moment he debated getting the cane, but decided against it.

She started the gas pumping. "Do you want anything? I think I'm going to stop in for the restroom and get a drink of some sort."

"I'll be in in a minute." She nodded and he moved off, slowly, carefully testing the leg.

A trail led off from the parking lot downhill and behind a rise. The evening air was cool and pleasant. There would not be many more nights like this; autumn was approaching. A partially erect cinderblock wall covered in graffiti sagged to the right and he stopped to lean against the rear of it, looking up at the stars. Only out in the deep country could one see the night sky like this. The heavens hung overhead like a soft blanket and the tiny lights above twinkled white, blue, red, and yellow. It was breathtaking.

The wind was coming up a bit and thus he did not hear them approach until they came at him from either side of the crumbling wall. One man stepped around to his left, and he spun, the leg twisting in an arc of pain upwards. "What do you want?"

Erik glared. Stupid, _stupid_ to be out of sight from the lights. They must have followed him from the parking lot.

"Just give over your wallet and no one gets hurt."

"F- off," he snarled, and felt something hard jab into his ribs from behind.

"I said, the wallet." The man with ragged, filthy hair tilted his head. "What's with the mask, freak? You some kind of Freddy Krueger wannabe?" He laughed, and Erik caught the scent of stale sweat and alcohol. Bile and the acid taste of fear rose in his throat. Behind him, the other man laughed and grabbed his arm, the sweetish smell of some pungent chemical wafting from him. Drugged and high?

"I don't have the goddamned wallet," he snarled, "I left it with my…wife up the hill to get gas."

"Right." The voice behind him jammed the object—a gun?—into his side. Erik turned and the first scruffy man lunged at him, grappling the front of his jacket. Something tore and the man behind him viciously wrenched his arm back and upward.

He swung and connected to the first man's face, feeling sharp pain radiate up his knuckles, wrist, and other shoulder. They both jumped on him, falling in a thrashing heap to the ground, hands grappling at jacket and pants pockets, searching for a non-existent wallet. "Nothing!" one of them spat. Erik kicked up and out, connecting with flesh, hearing the grunt of pain, and someone kicked the back of his bad knee. Erik fell sideways, swearing, and a foot connected with his ribs. Hands frantically scrabbled at his face, and there was a ripping sensation as the mask flew. He rolled away and caught another knee in the back. Something hard—the gun?—smashed against his uncovered face. Red sparks shot across his vision, and he felt one of the attackers grab his hair, yanking his face upwards into the light.

"Jesus Christ!" The man shoved him away hard, and Erik heard gagging sounds from the other. "What a f-ing monster!" The first man began to laugh, a cackling hysterical sound. "We caught ourselves a gen-u-ine freak show!"

"Erik!" Christine called from above, her voice coming closer. "Erik, where are you?"

"Shit!"

"Not worth it-let's go!" The two assailants darted away into the underbrush.

Erik coughed, spitting out blood and dirt, then lurched to his hands and knees, feeling the blood dripping from his damaged face, barely able to see. He heard her running footsteps and then she was there, hands on his upper arms, pulling him upright, sounding terrified. "Erik, oh my god, what happened? Are you…"

"Don't look at me," he cracked, spitting out a mouthful of blood. He wrenched away from her, nearly falling as he tried frantically to cover the right side of his face, but it was too late.

"Oh my god," she choked, sickened, as the moonlight rendered every inch of his marred flesh in harsh detail.

 _Maxillofacial trauma, they had called it. Avulsions, deep tissue injury. Skull fractures. Bone loss. Dental implants needed. Just able to save and reposition the eye. Rib bone and cartilage transplant for the socket, for the jaw. Skin graft, rejected. Massive antibiotics. Morphine._

 _He'd opened his good eye to a blinding white hospital room, nauseated and blurry from the sedation, agony lancing up from the right leg, each breath a white-hot shriek from broken ribs, his head a heavy, sodden, excruciating throb of pain, feeling the sting of multiple cuts and dull ache of deep bruising. A urine collection bag was suspended off the bed, the yellow liquid tinged red from internal organ damage._

 _ICU…not sure how you made it, but you're going to be ok…the nurse's cheery words blurred and the room tilted. The waiting blackness would be merciful. He let the red agony pull him back under._

Erik tried to keep one hand over the right side of his face, but that made it so damn difficult to see or stop the blood flow. His mask was gone, no telling where they'd thrown it, and his head was throbbing morass of pain. At least one scar was split, and he could tell from the pain that the hairpiece was gone as well, torn away from his sensitive skin. He'd not told her about that. From somewhere close he could hear her ragged gasping breaths.

And then she was there, her hands gentle on his body, an arm around him, guiding him back up the trail toward the car. Christine pushed him down past the open door to the seat and dashed off, grabbing a handful of paper towels from the dispenser by the windshield wash station and pressed them into his hand. "For your nose," she gasped, and he could hear her crying. "Oh my god, Erik, oh my god. I'm so sorry. Oh god."

He leaned forward, burying his damaged face, blood dripping between his fingers to the ground. "My mask," he said thickly, and she whirled.

"Yes, hang on, let me go look for it."

"Christine, no!" He staggered to his feet, head spinning. _Those two could still be back there._ But she was gone, running footsteps already receding into the night.

Once past the parking lot she stopped, bent over with hands on her knees, forcing the nausea and horror away. His face was bad, far worse than she could have possibly imagined, a nightmare of twisted red and purple flesh barely covering jutting bone, hardly any nose left. It was horrible…and yet how much worse it must be for him.

She was back by the time he had the bleeding under control, continuing past him toward the service station doors.

"Give me my mask!" he snarled.

"Wait, Erik!" Christine dashed past him and rinsed the mask in the restroom, carefully wiping the mud and dirt from the plastic piece. She seized a water bottle and more clean paper towels for his hands, paying quickly. Through the window she could see him slumped against the car, both hands over his face, shaking.

After a minute or two, he heard her hesitantly approaching footsteps. "Erik… here." She grasped his left hand, pulling it way from his face, and put the mask into it. "It's clean, no dirt at all, I rinsed and dried it. It should be ok."

He took it from her and tossed it onto the seat, turned his back, taking the wet paper towels and blotting at his face.

She stood miserably by the car, helplessly watching. "Can I do anything?"

"No, goddamit, I just…leave me alone, Christine." He tossed the bloody towels to the ground, pressing clean ones against his face, and after a minute carefully pulled the white plastic into position and adjusted the ties. There was nothing he could do about the hairpiece. Gritting his aching jaw, Erik turned back to her.

Christine stood there, her fists clenched at her side, tears spilling down her face. He saw her eyes go the discolored, scarred skin of his scalp, where only wisps of dry, grey hair remained, and she looked away, swallowing hard. He saw her start toward him and he flinched, turning aside. "Let's just go," he said dully.

Erik looked terrible, his hands bloody and face swelling. And his hair…that whole section was messed up too, a palm sized area of scarring and damage. Her eyes filled again with tears of empathy and she started toward him, her instinctive desire to simply hug him overcoming her reserve, but he stepped back, distancing himself, and she swallowed hard. He didn't want her sympathy, and she would not force it on him.

"I'm going inside, to get you some ice," she said desperately. "For the swelling. Don't move."

"As if I could," he spat.

She was returning with a large cup of ice and a package of car towels when the county sheriff's patrol car pulled up and a deputy emerged, hand on his hip, and approached them. "Oh shit," Christine muttered, hurrying over.

"I got a call about a disturbance," he said flatly, looking between the two of them, and Christine realized abruptly what a mess they both were, with Erik's battered clothing and body, his blood down the front of her shirt.

"We're fine," she said desperately, hoping to just make him go away. "We don't need anything."

"It don't look much like 'fine' to me," he said. "What's with the blood?"

"He was jumped on," she stuttered at the same time Erik raised his head and spoke.

"I tripped and fell."

The cop studied Erik's face for a long minute, and took a step backwards. "I'm gonna have to ask you to remove that mask, mister, so I can see what's going on here."

Beside him Erik felt Christine's mood swing from tears to rage. "No," she snapped, stepping in front of him, "it's a medical thing, he needs it."

The cop nodded. "That's fine, missy, but he's still gonna remove it."

Tears streaked her face, but her voice was choked with anger. "Can't you just leave us alone? We've done nothing wrong; we don't want any help."

The man ignored her and stared at Erik. "Sir…the mask. And your license and registration."

Slowly, as if gravity had suddenly taken a very heavy hold on his limbs, Erik raised both hands to the mask and strings, lifting it gingerly away from his battered, grotesquely scarred and swollen face. The cop's face twisted in shock and then revulsion, turning away and convulsively swallowing. Erik's thin lips twisted in a horrible parody of a smile and he slowly replaced the thin layer of plastic. Christine glanced at him…his eyes were flat, emotionless. He had to have been dealing with reactions like that for years, she realized, and it was only then she saw his shoulders slump in weary resignation.

She placed her hand on his arm, gently, looking up into his face, but Erik refused to glance at her.

"So can I assume that we are free to go, since we do not require any assistance?" His voice was icy.

The cop stared at him then turned to Christine. "You sure you are ok with…him?"

Angrily, she raised her chin and glared. "I'm fine. We're fine. Now please, can we just go?"

The cop handed back their licenses, jerked his head toward their car, then opened the door to his cruiser and drove off. She heard Erik say something low under his voice, in some foreign language, and then he turned to look at her. Christine's blue eyes were enormous and dark under the lights of the parking lot, full of unshed tears, her lips quivering. "I'm so sorry, my dear," he said quietly.

She nodded. "Erik, I…"

"Don't. Just please…don't." She nodded, and they slid into the car. She handed him the cup of ice and towels, and started the engine.

* * *

I hope you all enjoyed this latest update to TMoaM…please do leave a review!

This week's author spotlight goes out to Morrigan24601! Her WIP _Made of Stone_ is slowly killing me with the tension and angst. (Morrigan…update soon…I'm dying over here). Her _If This Be Heaven or Hell_ is a delightfully steamy read. Go check out her Phantom stories!


	14. Chapter 14 Tea, Muffins, and Conflicts

**A/N** —Thank you all for your reviews on the last chapter!

.

The Measure of a Man

Chapter 14 Tea, Muffins, and Conflicts

2016\. 2017

She rather suspected Erik had assigned her her own unique pass code for the lower gate, as it was highly unlikely he'd simply forgotten to change it. The scene along the highway couldn't seem to leave her mind, the blood, the horror that was his face, the hateful arrogance of the county deputy, Erik's anger and then hours of painful, bitter silence afterwards kept replaying when she least expected it. He'd sat, so stiff and withdrawn after their wonderful weekend, and her heart ached for him. How humiliated he must have been.

Two days passed in silence. After some thought, she'd penned a sincerely grateful thank-you note and then baked an assortment of muffins—blueberry, banana walnut, cranberry orange, cinnamon spice—and packed them up in assorted freezer bags. He could eat what he wanted and freeze the others for a later time.

Assuming he opened the door.

The temps would be in the lower 70's today, so she donned a pair of lightweight cocoa brown slacks, a shell-pink blouse, and grabbed an ivory cardigan just in case, dusted her nose with powder, and headed out.

Should she call ahead or not? Probably. But then, she didn't want to give Erik the opportunity to say no. A few minutes later she pulled into the driveway, collected the basket and her purse, and marched up to the door.

The musical chimes rang dully from behind the barrier and it was several minutes before she heard the bolts slide back. Erik opened the door and her heart twisted. Shoulders slumped, leaning on the cane, his dark hair rumpled and shirt untucked, he looked weary and somehow defeated.

"Christine," he said, and mutely she raised the basket by way of explanation. "Come in." He stepped back and she noted he was keeping the right side, the masked side, of his face turned away from her once more.

"I made you some muffins," Christine said gently. "I wanted to thank you again for the wonderful trip, to let you know how much I enjoyed it."

He sighed as he shut the door behind them. "Thank you, my dear, I appreciate that." He followed her into the kitchen, where she placed the basket on the granite counter and turned to face him.

"There are four kinds," she said into the silence. "Blueberry, cranberry, cinnamon, and banana. You can eat them now or freeze them for later."

Erik nodded. "Thank you." After a moment, he seemed to gather the pieces of himself. "Would you like some tea? It's near enough to 4:00." He attempted a smile and she felt the prickle of tears.

Christine perched on one of the barstools and deliberately folded her hands in her lap. "I'd love some, please, thank you," watching him move stiffly across the room, filling the electric kettle.

"Prince of Wales? Earl Grey? Ceylon?"

"Prince of Wales is fine."

He spooned leaves into a warm black tea pot and set two cups down on the counter. "Excuse me."

When Erik returned to the kitchen, he'd tucked the white shirt back into his pants and smoothed his hair. She gave him a tentative smile and he looked away, leaning on the sink and staring out across the lawn at the wooded lot. She studied him in the silence. The livid bruises were fading slightly; the swelling had diminished substantially. A minute later the kettle began to boil and he turned, carefully filling the pot. "It needs to steep," he said unnecessarily.

"Erik," she said softly, needing to address the elephant in the room, "I'm so sorry about…what happened. "I know that had to have been…awful for you."

He stared stonily down at the floor. "I should be the one apologizing, Christine. I did not intend for you to have to see that."

"It's ok, Erik," she said gently. "Really. Don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about it," he repeated bitterly. "How can I not? I have to live with this, this godawful monstrous…thing…staring at me every morning, every night, knowing…"

"Knowing what?" she said quietly.

"Nothing. Leave it." He folded his arms and looked away.

"Ok…if that's what you want. But please know…it's ok. I didn't…I don't… think you're monstrous or horrible or frightening or any of those things you're thinking."

His shoulders tensed against her words. "Please," he grated, "change the subject."

"OK." She had only made it worse, she thought miserably.

He lifted the lid and stirred the contents around. "Tea's ready."

She nodded and scooted the sugar bowl over toward them, then slid off the barstool and opened his refrigerator, bringing over a carton of milk. They busied themselves pouring and preparing their tea, then he lifted his cup and took a sip. "When does the fall term begin?"

"Next Monday."

"What are you taking?" He hung the cane on the counter's edge and leaned back, folding one arm across his chest, bracing the opposite elbow.

"French again, European Cultures, Comparative Governments, which sounds dreadful, and Ancient Middle East. And maybe Seminar, haven't decided yet."

He shook his head. "Put that one off until you're closer to your thesis. You are doing a thesis option, I assume."

She nodded. "I have no idea what the topic will be, though."

"You have a while." Erik poured another cup and held up the pot questioningly. Christine pushed her cup over to him. "I can help you with the French, if you'd like," he said, not meeting her eyes.

She paused, sugar spoon held in mid-air. "Would you? That would be awesome. I need someone to practice with. I can do the written part pretty well, but hearing it and reading it are so different."

"I spent some time in France, studying music," he said off-handedly and saw her eyes sparkle at him with interest over the rim of her cup.

"Good. You can help me with my music class next term also, then. If you want to, that is," she added hurriedly.

"I would be delighted, Christine."

"I also thought," she began hesitantly, "that you might, I mean, I'd like to invite you over to my condo for dinner some night. I owe you a meal, and I make a mean chicken parm, if you like that sort of thing."

"Even knowing what lies under this, what you would be dining with?" He gestured at his face.

"Yes, Erik." Her voice was gentle.

His dark eyes lit up and he slowly turned toward her, relaxing enough to ignore the mask. "Christine. You do not owe me anything, but yes, I would enjoy dining with you. And yes, chicken parmesan is fine."

"Caesar salad, garlic bread, iced tea ok?"

"Perfect."

And she smiled at him.

* * *

 _I am developing feelings for this man._ Christine rolled over, staring up at the ceiling. _And what the hell am I thinking? I have a boyfriend, sort of. And he's ten years or more older than me. And disfigured. With issues. Oh God. Why is everything so complicated? Or am I just stupid?_

For the last two hours, Christine had been tossing in bed, unable to sleep. Erik was coming to dinner tomorrow night, and Raoul was due back from Seattle the day after. He'd sent her a flurry of texts in the last few days, clearly looking forward to returning to the campus and to seeing her.

" _Can't wait to see you! Hope you had a great break!"_

" _Save Friday night for dinner!"_

" _Have you seen the newest Dark Hunt movie? Want to go?"_

And others. Christine smiled. Raoul was a breath of excitement after the long mostly empty days of the intercession. She was truly looking forward to seeing him again. Yet there was also Erik. She sensed he was attracted to her, and there was something about that reclusive, quiet man that called to her and pulled at her emotions.

Well, there was time enough to get to know both men. And with that, Christine rolled over again and snuggled down into sleep.

* * *

She found herself feeling oddly stressed over dinner preparations. Candles or not? No, it wasn't a date. Music. Yes. What kind? Wine? No, she's already said iced tea. Did he like sweeteners? Forcing herself to breathe, she made a detailed shopping list. A run by the store was in order, and fortunately, the condo was spotlessly clean. If only it didn't look so juvenile. Christine sighed. She'd bought or inherited basic furniture years ago but had never really upgraded. The condo still retained a bit of a college dorm life look, for all she'd been out of school for nearly seven years now.

 _Mental note, buy decent furniture at some point_ , she thought wryly.

She set the stereo on the local classical station, gave the pillows on the sofa one last fluff, and headed into the kitchen to start the iced tea.

He arrived five minutes after 6:00, dressed casually in a suit and shirt without a tie, bearing a small bundle of spicy autumn flowers—mums, asters, poms, zinnias-which he gravely handed over, pleased at the sudden sparkle in her eyes.

"Erik! Come in."

He was wearing the flesh-toned latex mask tonight, she noted. Perhaps he'd been out somewhere earlier. Erik leaned his cane against her entryway table and went to peruse the bookshelves as she had done, so Christine busied herself in the kitchen finding an appropriate vase for the little bouquet. The table was set, the chicken keeping warm in the oven, needing only the topping of cheese and sauce.

 _Salad, bread, tea, lemons, check._

"Come into the kitchen and get a plate," she called to him.

After a brief flutter of nerves, dinner quickly settled into easy conversation and he complimented her on the food as they listened to the evening news. They found they had common ground in the upcoming November election, which then led to discussions about politics and religion.

Christine had been raised Episcopalian, but aside from midnight mass at Christmas, had rarely attended church in recent years. "I'm pretty much a C&E," she explained, then added at his puzzled look, "Christmas and Easter," and he'd laughed.

Erik revealed that he was fiercely liberal and adamantly atheist. "Any god who allows people to suffer is no god worth worshipping," he said bitterly. "So either there is no god, or it's a god who either cannot or will not help. And that I cannot accept."

She'd tipped her head, curious, and indicated that he could go on, but Erik chose not to elaborate and after a minute she'd changed the subject.

At the conclusion of dinner, they'd moved together into the kitchen, scraping and stacking dishes in the washer as Christine put away the few leftovers and started coffee.

"I made dessert, too," she said hesitantly. "I hope you like German chocolate cake…it was my dad's recipe. Homemade."

A few minutes later they were settled on her sofa and side chair, slices of cake on the table and sipping decaf. The conversation flowed smoothly; Erik had opinions on the type of songs the campus classical station chose to play, which led to Christine retrieving her tablet so they could look at the university's upcoming music department and theater schedules.

"I'd love to go to it all," Christine said, perusing the selections.

"I'd be happy to take you," he said, watching her reaction intently.

Christine looked up, surprised. "Erik, that wasn't a hint. I can easily afford student tickets."

 _Have I offended her?_ "I only thought you might like company," he said quickly, feeling a tiny flutter of worry. She bit her lower lip, a trait he found endearing, but still looked uncomfortable. "But we need not go together, if you don't wish," he added stiffly.

"Let's worry about it later, ok?" she said, and he nodded, wondering what he had done wrong.

They were discussing the relative merits of _Medea_ when a rapid knocking interrupted the conversation. Surprised, Christine walked to the door and looked through the peephole. She frowned slightly and opened the door.

"Raoul! Whatever are you doing here? I thought you weren't coming in until tomorrow." Erik rose, watching and tense as a tall man stepped into Christine's apartment and wrapped her in a boisterous hug. He was young, probably Christine's age, with sunny blond hair and an easy smile, a big handsome athletic looking man, who clearly knew Christine well. Very well.

"I came in a day early, couldn't wait to see you," he grinned, and bent over to drop a kiss on her lips but Christine turned her head awkwardly at the last minute, glancing over at Erik, and the kiss landed on her cheek.

Raoul followed her glance and froze, staring with narrowed eyes at the unfamiliar man standing in Christine's living room, holding a coffee cup. Dessert plates lay on the table and he could hear the dishwasher running in the background. Obviously he had interrupted something.

In the silence, Christine flinched and mentally begged whatever gods existed that everything would stay calm.

"Raoul, this is my friend Dr. Erik Martin. Erik, Raoul de Chagny." Both men nodded at each other, then Raoul strolled forward, extending his hand.

"Dr. Martin. Pleased to meet you at last."

"Mr. Chagny." Erik's voice was cool but polite. "I'm afraid I don't know your name. How do you know Christine?"

Christine gritted her teeth. _Shut up, Erik._

Raoul smiled, putting an arm around Christine. "We've been seeing each other for a couple months now. She's something special."

"That she is." Erik said mildly, studying him, his dark eyes opaque.

"And you're the guy she runs errands for, since you don't drive." _Oh shit_. _Why why why did you say that?_

Erik tensed. "Yes." His voice was clipped.

Raoul turned to Christine. "Are we still on for tomorrow?"

 _Could this be any more awkward?_ "Yes, lunch at Dixie's."

"And a movie," he reminded her, "or you can come over to my place or something." He moved toward the door. "You've got company, so I'll let you get on with things. Nice to meet you!" he called to Erik, who nodded stiffly.

"Likewise."

Christine glanced apologetically at Erik and followed him out on to the porch.

"What was that all about?" she hissed.

"I could ask you the same! I thought he was some old guy! And what's with his face?" Raoul folded his arms and scowled.

"Hush!" Christine glanced frantically back toward the door, hoping desperately Erik had not heard. "It's a prosthetic…he's been injured."

Something flickered in Raoul's eyes. "Well, just don't get caught up playing nursemaid, ok? You've done enough—running errands, driving down to that concert. Don't forget about me, ok? I need some attention, too." He smiled, but his eyes were not amused. "I can see you're busy so I'll take myself elsewhere. We'll talk tomorrow, ok?"

She rubbed her hands against her face. "OK, fine. Just please don't be mad."

Raoul bent and kissed her, aware of their audience through the window. "I'm sure there's nothing to be mad about." He trotted down the stairs, giving her an airy wave.

Christine took a deep breath and returned inside the condo. In her absence, Erik had gathered their dishes and stacked them neatly in the sink, and was now putting on his suit coat. "You're leaving?" she said weakly.

"It's getting late," he said brusquely, not meeting her eyes. "And I've imposed long enough. I am sorry to have interrupted your reunion"

"I'm really sorry about that. Erik…I had no idea he was coming over tonight."

He raised his good eyebrow but said nothing and picked up the cane.

"Goodnight, Christine."

"Goodnight." They stood uncomfortably on the porch for a minute, then Erik turned and made his way carefully down the stairs. Christine shut the door and leaned against it. _Men_. With a sigh she located her phone and dialed Meg's number.

* * *

Of course it's going to be complicated.

Hope you enjoyed this update, and that you had a wonderful holiday break!

Thanks for reading, and please review!


	15. Chapter 15 Dr Khan

**A/N** —Wow, last chapter set a record 23 reviews! Thank you so much!

UnconventionaLove—that was one heck of a compliment. My goal in life is to write as well as VeroniqueClaire does.

Cassjoty—Same here. We had a high of 17F over the past weekend. Meh.

MC—I know….It's all I can do not to write Erik with a cane in every single story.

Slightly shorter chapter here, my apologies. We'll see a bit more of Khan in this and the next chapter, for those who have been asking.

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chapter 15 Dr. Khan

2016\. 2017, 2018

.

The autumn term began on a Monday and promptly fell headlong into a busy schedule. Christine had three classes on MWF and two on TTh. She had allowed herself up to ten hours a week for Task Rabbit errands, feeling that would still give her time for classes and Raoul.

She'd expected their lunch on Sunday to be awkward, but he'd dismissed her apology with a smile and an apology of his own.

"I'm sorry about last night, Chris. I was hoping to have you all to myself, but it was no big deal. I'll call ahead next time." She'd hugged him in relief, and vowed silently to keep both men far apart from each other if at all possible.

Raoul had been unusually preoccupied during lunch and when pressed, finally admitted the break had been somewhat stressful. His father was not doing well, he had explained, and his mother was pressing him to transfer back in-state to complete his MBA.

"Phil looks terrible, like he's not sleeping. He told me he's putting in a lot more time at the company, except Dad keeps overriding his decisions or isn't available or won't explain things. I think Phil's truly afraid to find out what's going on, and then I think how silly that sounds. Dad's always been a brilliant businessman, and Mom says everything is fine, that Dad and Phil are just tired, and how much better it would be if I'd be there to help out." He raked a hand through his hair in frustration. "One minute they're patting me on the head and the next they'd acting as if it's all going to fall down in ruins." He sighed. "Let's talk about something else, ok?"

They'd ended up at the movies, but she could tell he was too preoccupied to enjoy the film. Afterwards he'd kissed her and said he was planning on heading to the campus sports center to meet a classmate for racquetball. Christine had been invited but declined, saying she had things to do before classes began the next day.

"Maybe it will work out the frustration," he said with a half-smile, and she'd hugged him.

* * *

The autumn term had also brought the student body back in full force, flooding the small campus. Parking was tricky and the sidewalks crowded with freshmen darting about finding their classes. She and Raoul had resumed their habit of trying to meet for lunch. The commons food court area was now far more crowded during the fall session than it had been over the summer and seating was difficult to find. "It's going to be so much worse when the weather gets cold," he grumbled, as they stood holding trays and backpacks.

"We probably ought to stake out an area in the library and claim it, too. I will have to put in some real time this semester."

"Yeah, same here. Data Analytics is going to kill me."

They pounced on an open table and settled their trays gratefully. "How are your other classes going?" Christine asked, pouring dressing on her salad.

He shrugged. "Communications is a waste of time. Leading and Managing...lord, who comes up with this stuff? Marketing is interesting. Accounting is boring. I'll get through it all, the family will be happy, and then I'll be locked in an office for the rest of my life." Raoul picked up his burger and eyed it warily. "Kangaroo this time, I think."

Christine giggled. "Why do you get burgers if they're always mystery meat?"

He grinned. "Bad habit, I suppose."

Christine took another bite and frowned at him. "Raoul, you always sound so down about this degree and your job. Is it really that bad?"

He took a long drink, thinking before answering. "No…it's not that bad, and it's the family business after all. It's just that I don't think I ever really had any other choice in the matter. Or Phil, either. We both worked or interned there from the time we were teenagers. Dad saw to it we learned the company from the ground up. We both did grounds maintenance and worked in the canteen or drove delivery trucks as teenagers. Then it was off to college for business degrees for both of us." He shrugged. "Phil always wanted to follow in Dad's footsteps...he was a born CEO. Me, I don't know what they would have done if I'd wanted to be an engineer or doctor or god forbid, an artist or sailor or something."

"Did you want to do something different?" She regarded him seriously.

Raoul ducked his head and when he looked up, his expression was wistful. "I really wanted to join the Navy. That probably sounds silly to you, but there have been de Chagnys in the Navy forever, explorers and adventurers and military officers. I'd have enjoyed it, too, I think. Maybe I should have just done it, but I'd have needed a different degree and they wouldn't have paid for it and I would have never ever heard the end of it. So...yeah."

Her eyes were sympathetic. "I've never told anyone else that before," he said, with an abashed smile. "But you know, someday I'm going to own a sailboat, a big one, a 75 footer at least, a coastal cruiser. That's my dream. I might not get to be in the Navy, but I'm still going to sail."

"I think that's awesome." She pushed aside her empty sandwich wrapper and smiled at him. "Sounds like a great plan to me."

He grinned. "I'll take you out on her, then, and we'll sail up to Vancouver or something."

She grinned back. "It's a deal."

* * *

A week had passed since their awkward dinner night. She would be busy with classes beginning the new semester, and no doubt seeing that boy. Even as his hands were busy with instrument repair, Erik found himself thinking of Christine at idle moments, wondering what she was doing.

His phone chimed a calendar reminder. _Dr appt, 4:00 Tuesday_. He frowned at it and debated only a few minutes before dialing her number. It was late enough in the day that her classes should be over.

She answered on the second ring, a cheery lilt in her voice. "Dr. Martin! Good afternoon." He could hear the smile but the formal address was worrisome.

"Christine. I have a favor to ask of you, but please don't feel obligated. I need a ride somewhere—it's to my physician here in town—and I'd rather not have to deal with two separate taxis."

"Of course," she said immediately. "Is it about your leg?"

"Yes, a follow-up. At 4:00 on Tuesday. I don't know how long it will take, though." He frowned again, already regretting involving her, but her voice was upbeat when she answered.

"Not a problem…I always have plenty of reading to do. Trust me, I can keep myself amused while you're in there."

"Since this is not a Tasker errand, would you allow me to offer you dinner afterwards?"

Christine smiled. "I'd like that, yes."

"Will the Greystone be acceptable? And shall we take my car? With any luck, I'll be able to drive it after the appointment." There was a touch of dry amusement and hope in his voice.

She opened her mouth to protest, then remembered Meg's advice. "That would be lovely, thank you. If I'm at your place around 3:30, will that work?"

"Yes. I will see you then. And Christine, thank you."

* * *

She pulled up into the driveway and Erik immediately rose from the bench by the door and came toward her. He was dressed casually, tan slacks and a dark red polo shirt, and wore the facial prosthetic. "You're walking well," she greeted him. "Hopefully it will be good news today."

"Let us hope so." He grimaced. "I will admit to being rather tired of this driving restriction." He gave her directions to the office.

Dr. Khan was located in one of the newer medical complexes on the southwest side of the city, an area of matching office buildings and trees. She parked as closely as possible and entered with him, carrying her European Cultures notebook and tablet. He stopped by the registration desk then came to sit beside her, clipboard in hand.

"There's always so much paperwork," Christine noted sympathetically, looking at the stack of forms, and he nodded absently.

Minutes later, a tall, darkly handsome man with a short, neatly-trimmed beard and a white lab coat emerged from behind the locked door. His piercing black eyes settled immediately on Erik, quietly observing. Christine nudged her companion. "Is that your doctor?" The physician frowned slightly, assessing her as Erik rose, then smiled a welcome to him.

"Back in a bit," Erik said, resigned.

* * *

"Shoes off; let's get your height and weight," Nadir Khan said.

"Don't you have a nurse to do this?" he grumbled.

Khan smiled, white teeth gleaming against his tanned skin. "You're always so charming to them I thought I'd have all the fun myself." He frowned at the numbers.

"Don't say it."

"You're significantly underweight, my friend."

"What else is new," Erik said irritably.

"That's what we're here to find out," Khan replied mildly. "First door to the left, remove your shirt and trousers." He stood watching the other man's gait as he walked down the corridor, frowning.

Khan shut the door and washed his hands, waiting while Erik shed his clothing and sat uncomfortably on the table. "Smile, Erik, perhaps today is the day for good news." He passed the stethoscope over his patient's prominent ribs, listening to heart and lungs, applied the blood pressure cuff and thermometer, then ran practiced hands down the damaged leg, digging fingers in, rotating, pressing, then held Erik's foot. "Push against my hand. Harder. Mmm. Now pull your leg away. Mmhmmm."

"What?"

"You've lost a lot of muscle tone. Quit favoring that leg."

"It hurts," he snarled.

"And it's going to keep hurting for some time." He raised the little rubber mallet. "Let's check your reflexes. Relax."

"Not the easiest thing to do while you're poking and prodding," he groused.

"My, you're grumpy. Lie back." Khan bent the knee joint inwards until Erik yelped.

"Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired," he snapped.

Khan smiled. "So who is that lovely young woman in the waiting room?"

"My driver, since you won't let me use my car." He glared.

Khan raised an eyebrow. If she were only a driver he'd eat his grandfather's fez. The young woman had sat directly beside him, turned slightly toward Erik, who was doing paperwork within her vision range. It was rare Erik trusted anyone. This was an interesting development.

"When do I get to meet her?" He held the foot bent upwards. "Push."

Erik grunted with the effort. "You don't."

"Oh, protective of her, I see."

"So you are my psychologist as well as my physician now?"

"Someone has to be."

Erik gave him a venomous look. "Maybe later."

"I'll expect a dinner invitation." He rotated the hip joint then released Erik's leg, gently easing it to the table, and sat back on his stool.

"Let's have it," Erik said sourly, sitting up, shivering and reaching for his shirt.

"Your last set of x-rays and scans showed the bones healing nicely. We might eventually talk about removing some of that hardware, but that's up to you, if you want to endure another surgery. You've lost considerable muscle tone and the tendons are tight. I want you to exercise that leg. Stretch it. Get out walking, join a gym and do leg presses, swim, do something. I don't recommend downhill skiing or taking up skateboarding, but you need to build up that leg. Also, you're significantly underweight. Eat more." He gave his friend a steely glare. "Your body temp is cold, probably because of your weight, and your blood pressure is higher, too, which is certainly not due to your weight. How is your stress level? I don't want to put you on meds if I can help it."

"My stress level is no different." Erik said tightly. "I will endeavor to eat more. I am _not_ going out in public to join a gym or go walking."

"Buy some home exercise equipment," Khan said unsympathetically. "You can afford it." Erik rolled his eyes.

Khan put his hands inside the lab coat's deep pockets and leaned back against the sink. "How is your face?"

Erik sighed. "The same. The prosthetic glue irritates, but I leave it off as much as possible. And no, we are not going to discuss any other plastic surgery."

He gestured back toward the waiting room. "Does she know?"

Erik stiffened. "Yes. Of course."

"And?"

For the first time, the bitter man on the table smiled faintly. "She knows, yes, Nadir, and she doesn't seem to mind."

"Has she seen you?" Khan continued to prod.

"Yes," he snapped. "And yes, it was horrific. But she didn't run, Nadir, she stayed." His voice softened. "And she looks at me like I'm a man, not a monster."

"And you care about her."

Erik looked away. "Yes. Is it so impossible?"

"After Carla…I was worried about you, my friend. And it's been long enough. You've been alone too long." Nadir Khan's voice was compassionate.

"It's been years."

"What does she feel for you?" he asked softly.

"Just friendship. But…I hope…"

Khan gripped his arm. "Be careful, my friend, and go slowly. I do not want to see you hurt."

"We are having dinner tonight, at The Greystone."

Khan smiled and rose. "Then you best get dressed. Order a steak and a loaded baked potato, and eat all of it. Doctor's orders. We need to get you back to your old self."

Erik sighed, reaching for his trousers. "I doubt that's possible, but yes, I'll try. What about driving?"

Khan was scribbling notes on Erik's file, but now he looked up, pinning the younger man with a direct gaze. "Yes, but _only_ in town, no long distance driving for at least another couple months."

"Hallelujah." Erik slid off the table, looking for his shoes.

"You won't thank me when that leg begins to hurt."

* * *

.

Thanks for reading, and please review. :)


	16. Chapter 16 A Little Night Music

A/N—I'm glad you all enjoyed seeing Nadir Khan again. He's fun to write. Nadir and Erik have a long past, and yes, you'll get to learn more about it. Today, in fact.

Mominator—Nope, just been through enough PT myself! And thank you for continuing to let me know about typos. I hate those.

*grins* And for those of you fretting, our Christine is in no hurry to settle down. She's got two men interested…let the woman enjoy herself. Wouldn't you?

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chapter 16 A Little Night Music

2016\. 2017, 2018

 _One hour._ Christine dashed into the shower and out again. Erik would be by just before 6:00. The Greystone was upscale and they had reservations. She'd need to get ready quickly. She twisted and pinned her long brown curls into a sleek French twist and reached for the hair spray, determined to keep the unruly mass under control. Nice hosiery…the good underwear…those black heels…and finally, the black dress she'd bought a month ago. It needed pearls, she thought, scowling critically in the mirror, to be very _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ , but she didn't have pearls. The gold necklace? No, wrong neckline. Earrings, then, the dangling ones. Touch of perfume. Makeup…

Very pleased, Erik backed the gleaming Mercedes out of the garage and pressed the remote. The dashboard clock said 5:42…perfect timing. He had not even been in the car since their trip to Boulder. A few minutes later found him pulling up before her condo.

Christine must have been watching for him, for the door opened and she stepped out immediately. She was elegant in a black dress that showed off long shapely legs and arms. For a moment he wished Khan could see her and was surprised at the twinge of possessiveness he felt. _Steady, old man._

Her eyes sparkled up at him as he held the car door. "Good to be driving again?"

"Yes," he said fervently. "I may have to take a tour of the city tonight just to see it again," and she laughed.

The restaurant was all granite, steel, dark wood, and subdued lighting. Erik ordered a glass of wine for each of them as they looked over the menus. He tossed his aside with a half-smile. "I'm not sure why I'm looking; I promised Nadir—Dr. Khan—I'd eat a steak tonight."

"Good," she smiled. "You need to eat."

She had ordered the salmon with steamed vegetables and their meals arrived quickly. It had been a good evening, if he dared let himself think of such things. Dinner had been pleasant. She'd sat across from him, listening as he described various architectural projects he'd been involved with. She'd spoken of her classes and the school she'd left. He'd ordered—and actually eaten—the steak. With any luck, the candlelight hid his ravaged face somewhat. It certainly gave Christine a soft glow.

After the dinner, they had simply driven around the town for a bit, the Mercedes purring under his hands, the relief and freedom coursing through his veins. He was no longer dependent on a driver, free to be a man to her, not merely just an employer.

And as such, he'd invited her back to his house for a nightcap, half-fearing she would not accept, but surprisingly, she agreed.

Once inside he took their coats, hanging them neatly in the closet by the door, and offered her a choice of drinks, grateful to have had the forethought to buy a selection of wines and liquors. Christine had asked for hot tea with a dash of DiSarrano, and he'd poured some of his cherished Glenmorangie Signet Scotch, a gift from Khan, for himself. Carrying their glasses, Erik escorted them into the living room and stooped to light the fire.

"A bit early in the season, but I like the ambiance," he said, and she nodded.

"A fire always smells so good." Christine ran her hand along the gleaming piano and smiled up at him. "Tell me you actually play this," she teased, "and it's not just a very expensive decoration."

"Oh, I play," he said, leaning against the massive instrument. "Is that a challenge?" His dark eyes locked on hers with an indefinable expression.

With a smile she curled gracefully onto the leather sofa, toeing off her shoes and tucking her legs next to her, waving her drink encouragingly.

Erik seated himself at the bench and raised the lid, his long fingers wandering over the keys in a series of arpeggios and scales, warming up. In this one area he had confidence, could forget everything else for a time. He cocked his head at her. "What do you wish to hear?"

"What do you play?"

He shrugged. "A bit of everything, really."

"Then I'll let you decide." Her eyes were sparkling. "I like a bit of everything, really."

 _She wasn't going to make this easy_. His fingers found the opening notes to _Full Moon and Empty Arms_ , then seamlessly transitioned into _You Go To My Head_ , and _If I Loved You._

"I partially put myself through college, playing piano bar and receptions, gigs, whatever I could find," he said easily. There was a soft smile on her face, and his breath caught. Christine set her empty glass on the end table and came to stand in the curve of the piano, watching him.

"Play more?"

"As you wish," he murmured. _Strangers in the Night_ swirled around the room. Either he had an affinity for Sinatra or could he possibly flirting with her?

She cleared her throat and sang softly along, looking at him questioningly, and he nodded encouragement.

"You sing fairly well," he said, considering. "Did you ever have lessons?"

"No, we never could afford anything like that. I just sang in the church choir or at school, or on my own. I enjoy it, but…"

He looked up questioningly, and she watched his long hands move smoothly, effortlessly, across the keyboard.

"But?"

Christine blushed, distracted. "Oh, I thought once or twice about studying music, maybe going professional, but it's so hard to make it, and so expensive."

He inclined his head, and she could have bitten her tongue. Hadn't his wife been a professional singer? _Change the subject, Christine…._

"So do you sing as well as play?" She made her voice teasing again.

"Indeed, I do," he murmured.

"Sing for me?"

Lord, as if the man's speaking voice wasn't heady enough. His singing voice, a smooth tenor, in French at that, singing _La Vie En Rose_ , his eyes on hers, made her knees weak at that impossibly dark amber sound. Then he shifted into a couple Josh Groban favorites, _Alla Luce Del Sol_ and _Gira Con Me Questa Notte_.

Stunned, Christine shook her head, as if to clear it. "My god, Erik, you should be a professional. Why aren't you singing on stage somewhere, or recording albums?"

He gestured at his face and she flushed, turning away. "I'm sorry…I didn't even think of that."

"Kind of you to say," he said flatly, bringing the shimmering notes to an end, and raised a hand to rub stiff neck muscles.

She touched his arm gently. "No, really…I didn't even think about it. I was just enjoying listening to you play….and I'd like to do it again, sometime."

He looked up into her earnest blue eyes. "To quote the Princess Bride, _as you wish_."

"I love that movie!"

* * *

Nadir Khan slid the bishop two squares and leaned back, watching his friend's expression darken, and allowed himself a slight smile. Erik swirled his glass of deep red wine, pondering his next move.

"So," Khan said smoothly into the silence, "how did it go the other night?"

Erik did not look up. "I had a steak as you ordered, and yes, I ate it."

"And the girl?"

"She ordered the salmon."

"Erik," he chided, "you know what I mean."

The younger man moved a rook and gazed at Khan over steepled fingers. "We had a pleasant conversation. Is that what you want to know?"

Nadir sighed. No doubt this was all he'd be able to pry from his taciturn friend.

He'd first met Erik more than twenty-five years ago. At the time he'd been home from college, visiting his parents, when movement out in the yard had caught his eye. A young boy had dashed into the Khans' backyard, pursued by the neighborhood bullies, who snatched away his instrument case and were throwing it back and forth, while tripping or punching the younger child as he tried to get it back. The kid was a fighter though, not crying, just enraged.

Khan loped down the stairs and out the back door, his six-foot-four tall presence and lingering reputation as a local high school soccer star adding to his authority. The punk kids had scattered, the boy had gathered his backpack and violin case, and turned to face the new threat.

Khan had recognized the dark-haired boy; the latest foster child staying with the family down the street. With a sigh, he invited the boy inside, offered him a soda and a chance to wash up, and sat and listened.

Over time they'd become friends. As the years passed, it wasn't unusual to find Erik stretched out on the backyard patio furniture, having run away again from his latest foster home. Khan finally talked his parents into letting the sullen teenager live with them during his last two years of high school. By then he himself had graduated medical school, and after the events of 9-11, followed his family back to Iran.

Erik had gone on to college and he, restless in the oppressive home country, had joined Médecins Sans Frontières. It had been the right choice; two years later he met another doctor, a fellow Iranian named Rookheya Shah. She had long dark hair and warm amber eyes, skin like polished golden wood, and a brilliant mind. Within days he was hopelessly besotted. Only a few months later they were married.

He'd heard from Erik sporadically. The man had graduated university, working as an architect, still pursuing his music hobby. He spent some time in France, then returned to school for advanced degrees in music, met and married a woman who sang professionally. The marriage seemed full of strife, but Khan did not question; his own world was falling apart. His parents had died just a few months from one another, and then his entire world had imploded—Rookheya and their infant son had been returning home to visit her parents when they were killed by a violent act of insurgents. Their son, Reza, only months old, had died instantly. Rookheya, who had dedicated her life to serving others, lingered long enough to die in his arms.

Racked with grief and loathing for the senseless violence of the world, Khan had returned to the United States. He'd located Erik, in time to be there when he awoke from surgery after the accident, and had settled into the same university town out of compassion for the friend who had also lost his entire world. The two met occasionally afterwards for dinner or chess.

Khan slid his queen over, bracketing in Erik's bishop. He might try another distraction. "And what else? Did she stay the night?"

Erik glared. "She is not that kind of a girl. And I wouldn't ask that of her."

"Women have needs too, you know."

"And I am just the sort to fulfill them,' Erik snapped. "I'm a sort of Don Juan, you know. Women can't resist me."

Nadir waggled his fingers. "Don't get snippy with me. There's nothing at all wrong with the rest of you."

"Aside from my shocking good looks and stunning physique and charming personality? I can see how I'd be _such_ a catch. Especially for a girl like _her_."

Nadir studied his friend, then spoke gently. "She seems to enjoy spending time with you."

He shrugged. "Perhaps. We came here after dinner for a nightcap."

"And?"

Erik sacrificed a pawn. "I played for her. And sang."

As he hoped, Khan gaped at him, completely overlooking the possibilities of the move and fumbling with his own pieces. "You what?"

He tightened the noose, leaping a knight into position. "I sang for her. Oldies. She seemed to enjoy it." He kept his voice level, noncommittal.

Too late Khan saw the trap. "You devil." He glared at the board then at Erik. "You did that on purpose."

Erik reached for his queen. "Check."

"Bastard." Khan tipped his king.

"Probably." Erik smiled.

* * *

"Hey girlfriend, I have two spare tickets to the ballet next month, if you want to come up. Mom and Dad can't make it, Brian's busy, and I thought you could bring that gorgeous boyfriend of yours so I can check him out."

Christine leaned against her kitchen counter and transferred the phone to her other ear. "Maybe," she said cautiously. "What are you all doing? You know I don't get into that modern stuff."

One hundred and five miles away, Meg sighed. "Modern interpretive dance allows the artists to…"

"Meg!"

"Yes dear."

"I know your views on modern dance. Just tell me what you're doing."

"It's the last weekend for _Coppélia_ before we enter the hell that is the _Nutcracker_."

Christine smiled. " _Coppélia_ I will go see. Thank you. It will give me an excuse to wear that dress again."

"And have dinner with Mr. Gorgeous. I can't wait to meet him!"

* * *

But Raoul frowned, regretful. "I'm not much into ballet, Christine. I mean, I'll go if you want me to, but it's not really my thing." He sounded genuinely apologetic, and she squeezed his arm reassuringly.

"It's fine. Don't worry about it. I grew up taking lessons so it's different for me. Besides, Meg's my best friend and I enjoy watching her. She's so different on stage."

He speared a bite. "I'm looking forward to meeting her, too. She sounds like a lot of fun. Does she ski or anything?"

Christine laughed. 'Oh god no. She is _prima ballerina_ …she doesn't do anything that would possibly break a leg."

They were sitting out of doors on a bench near the Student Union with their lunches, having given up on finding a table. September was well underway, the temps at night were dropping sharply and the trees were beginning to turn the vibrant colors of autumn. Walking between classes meant checking the weather ahead of time, and many students had begun carrying about insulated mugs of tea, coffee, or cider.

"Going to rain tonight," Raoul said, squinting up at the sky. "A pity, I was hoping to go for a run. Guess it will be the gym instead."

"I have too much homework. What is it about Mondays?"

He grinned. "They have faculty meetings where they plan it out in advance. Didn't you do that as a teacher?"

"Hey!" she protested, laughing, and he grinned again.

"Just teasing." He gathered their trash and tossed it in the bin. "Where are you heading next?"

"French. In the Classroom Building."

"I'm next door, I'll walk you there." They picked up backpacks and began walking, dodging cyclists on their way across the bike lane to the sidewalks. Raoul took her hand, holding it easily, naturally and she squeezed his fingers. He glanced down at her.

"I really am sorry about the ballet," he said. "I was dragged to way too much of that type stuff as a kid, when I'd have much rather been outside running around. And speaking of, there's another racquetball tournament tomorrow night. I'd like it if you came to watch, but I understand if you can't or don't want to." He was playing steadily through the campus intramural league, she knew, and nodded.

"I'll be there. When is it?"

Behind them a black Mercedes turned the corner and slid into a spot hear the performing arts building. Erik sat watching as Christine strolled down the sidewalk engaged in conversation with the man he'd met at her apartment. The blond man reached down and took her hand and she did not protest or pull away, but instead looked up at him, smiling.

It was a long minute before he stepped out of the car.

* * *

She'd happily redecorated the small condo for autumn, putting out a soft wool blanket, spicy candles in the living room and bathroom, and hanging a wreath of bittersweet on the door. It was her favorite season of the year. Sweaters, boots, soup, homemade treats, gorgeous colors, and the best holidays. County fairs, caramel apples, hot cocoa. Changing leaves and fireplaces. Christine smiled, pleased with her efforts. If only autumn in the far north wasn't such a short season. Winter would be here all too soon.

Carrying her tea over to the counter, she swiped across the tablet, checking the calendar. Several deadlines were coming up soon; she'd need to get a paper out of the way tonight. Meg's ballet was in a couple weeks as well, before midterms. After a few minutes' thought she picked up the phone. It was worth a shot.

He answered immediately, his voice rich and warm, making her wonder again if that tone was just for her. "Christine. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She paced from the living room into the kitchen, looking beyond the little deck across the hill and trees toward where she knew he lived. "Erik, hi. Um, my friend Meg has given me two tickets to see _Coppélia_ the second week of October. I know it's kind of late notice, and I don't know if you like ballet, but I thought I'd ask if you would like to go with me and see it."

His dark eyes flickered toward the wall of windows. As always, her soft voice sent a pleasant tingle up his spine. An evening with her. He felt the stiff edges of his face crease in a smile. "I would love to. Which ballet did you say they are performing? _Coppélia_ would be fine; I'm not sure I've ever seen it. Would you care to have dinner beforehand?"

He felt her smile through the connection. "I'd love to."

"Then I will find somewhere and make reservations."

"I'll drive, if you'd like."

"Then we'll take my car."

"I'll look forward to it. Thanks so much!"

"No," he said quietly, "thank you for thinking of me. À bientôt."

"À bientôt."

* * *

.

Thank you for reading, and please review!


	17. Chapter 17 A Fine Day at the Fair

**A/N** —My apologies for the almost three month delay in updating this story. I've been dealing with a fairly severe case of writer's block. Though the outlines for this and the next several chapters were completed long ago, filling in the gaps has been nigh well impossible. Thank you all for your PMs, notes on Tumblr, and occasional review...they have motivated me to keep struggling with it. I will no doubt revise this chapter at some point in the future, but for now I think it wise to post what I have to move on. This chapter ended up so long I've divided it in half and will post both at the same time. Please _please_ review both.

These are fairly Raoul-heavy chapters, but it's likely to be the last of them, and I think you'll see why. Thanks for hanging in there with me! Onward!

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chapter 17 A Fine Day at the Fair, and a Visit to the Ballet

2017, 2018

.

Carrying sixteen graduate hours this semester was much more intensive than the summer term; Christine was having to spend additional time in the library, with study groups, and writing. The amount of work was steady but not overwhelming if she kept on top of things, and she was feeling stimulated in ways that were refreshing, if challenging. However, it left little time for socialization. She had not seen Meg for a month.

She and Raoul had escaped the campus the last Saturday afternoon at the end of September to wander the county Fall Expo. He'd called with the invitation, claiming that Marketing Analysis was going to drive him crazy, and she'd accepted, feeling a mental health break was needed as well.

The county Fairgrounds were twenty minutes east of town in a series of white-painted, somewhat shabby metal prefabricated buildings. They'd parked the Jeep in a muddy lot with dozens of other cars, and Christine was grateful she'd worn winter boots against the weather as they slogged through the field toward the barns. Inside was a steamy maze of booths and tables with children from local 4-H, Scouts, and other clubs showing their baked goods, crafts, and projects, and adults displaying quilts, jams and canned goods, woodworking, art, sewing projects, and metalwork. They bought caramel apples, nibbling as they wandered through the cheerful noise, admiring projects and offering compliments.

Between two buildings an open-air stage, surrounded by hay bales, was beginning to slowly fill with spectators. Raoul took one longing glance at the food trucks and vendors' stalls and pointed. "Hungry? Go save us a seat. I'll buy. What do you want?"

"Just a hot dog…ketchup, mustard, relish. No onions or jalapeños. Chips, and something to drink." He nodded and dashed off with an excited air and returned, laden and grinning.

"Good lord," Christine said involuntarily, as Raoul began unloading his tray on the space between them. Two hot dogs, Frito chili pie, an Indian taco, nachos, lemonade, soda, a giant pickle…

"We will walk all this off," he promised and she groaned.

They settled on the hay bales, eating and watching as a square dance demonstration began on the stage. Boots stamped, ruffled skirts flew, and couples whirled. Raoul grinned. "I'm dizzy just watching. How do they move so fast?"

"How do they follow the directions so fast?" Christine countered. "I'd never make it. I wonder what they get judged on?"

"Just lots of practice, and no judging," a woman said with authority behind them. "It's all for fun. There's a lot of friendly rivalry in the costumes, but no prizes or 'best dancer' or any of that." She eyed them speculatively. "You two interested?"

Christine began giggling at Raoul's look of horror, which he hastily hid behind a napkin. She turned and shook her head. "No, it's just fun to watch."

"We're always glad to have new folks join us. You should come try it out," she urged. "It's great exercise, too!" She moved off to sit with her family and Raoul grinned.

"Dodged a bullet, there." He gathered up their debris and deposited it in the nearest trashcan. "Come on," he said, grabbing her hand. "I want to go look at the livestock."

The warm smell of manure and straw made her nose twitch, but it was worth the potential allergies. Watching her big blond-haired friend talking seriously to the 4-H kids about their show cattle was the cutest thing, Christine thought, amused, leaning against a stall. He was so earnest, treating the adolescents with the seriousness of an adult and listening, asking questions as the kids, exhausted but happy, pointed out various aspects of their animals. He patted horses, admired sheep, and inquired about hog species. The kids chatted eagerly back. He'd make a great dad one day, she thought, and then gave herself a mental shake.

"You're so good with the kids," she told him later, as they began heading back across the barn toward the exit.

"I love the shows," he admitted sheepishly. "I grew up on a ranch, you know. We had cattle, did gymkhanas, all that sort of thing."

"A real ranch? Like a working ranch?"

"Sure! Range land and pasture, cattle and sheep and horses. You ought to come see it sometime. The old homestead and all that." He looked hopefully at her. "In fact, want to? What are you doing over Thanksgiving Break? I'm headed back home, and you'd be welcome to come too."

Christine frowned. "I wouldn't want to impose on your family holiday."

"Not an imposition. We often have guests. Give it some thought, Chris, unless you've already got plans."

Plans. Thanksgiving last year had been a blur; her first major holiday without her parents. Meg and her mother had simply pulled her into their family for the weekend, ignoring her protests, but she didn't want to assume they'd do so again. "I'll think about it," she promised.

Raoul nodded. "Let's go check out the last building and then head back. I don't think we've been in C yet." He paused, glancing toward the pavilion.

"Ooo. Funnel cakes!"

* * *

October arrived with a series of "blustery days," as Pooh Bear once said. The mornings were near freezing and the highs no more than 50F. Sweaters, boots, mittens, and jackets were now a necessary dress code.

Limiting her hours with the Task Rabbit Office had been wise. She still picked up Dr. Valerius each weekend and took the elderly lady shopping, declining dinner invitations, and delivered items to the post office. From Erik Martin there was no word; no doubt he was doing his own errands now, but Christine found herself thinking of him at quiet times of the day.

Meg called one wet afternoon, bored and wanting to talk. Brian was off with his hiking buddies for the weekend, while the weather was still tolerable. "You should come up."

"Can't, too much to do here. Besides, you'd vanish off to rehearsal."

"True," Meg said imperturbably. "So give me an update. How's college, how's your love life?"

"Classes are fine, I still hate Stat. Love life…if I figure it out, you'll be the first to know. Why is this so complicated?"

"Hah. You never went through a bad-boy phase," Meg said gloomily, and Christine laughed.

"What was that guy's name? Hammer? Blade? Something like that?"

"Thor. Or so he said. God, I was an idiot."

"I thought your mother was going to have a conniption."

"I don't know how she didn't," Meg grimaced. "Why didn't you slap some sense into me?"

"I _tried_. We _all_ tried. But it was _twoo wuv_. Or something."

"Something," her friend smirked, and Christine laughed.

"Seriously, Chris, what's the problem? For someone who really hasn't dated in years, suddenly you've got an embarrassment of riches."

"I have too dated."

One hundred plus miles away Meg Giry rolled her eyes. "Christine. Please. The guy you met at the conference? You went out with him what, twice? And then Brian's friend? He was a nice guy, by the way. Brian said he really liked you."

She sighed. "Old history, Meg. What do I do now?"

Meg took a long sip of her white wine and leaned back on the sofa. "Tell me what's going on with de Chagny?"

"I don't really know," Christine admitted. "Raoul is such a sweetheart. He's a great kisser. He's cute, funny, personable, rich, and he likes me. He's invited me up to the Family Farm for Thanksgiving Break." She fell silent.

"And?" prodded Meg.

"Well, that's just it. There is no 'and.' It's like...I like him, he's a great guy, and I feel kind of stupid to say this, but there's just no spark. I like to hang around with him; we're good friends. But that's about it."

Meg frowned, swirling the last sip of wine. "Well, here's a thought. Go with him up to Ye Olde Family Farm. I'd invite you to do Thanksgiving with us but Mom wants to fly back East over the break and go to some meeting."

"And you're tagging along because..?"

"Shopping, dear. And contacts."

"Of course." Christine grinned. "But why go?"

"Several days together might set off the spark. Or you might find out it's better to be friends. Besides, you don't need to sit home alone. Give it a shot."

"Hmmm. I'll think about it," she promised.

* * *

Another busy week of classes and research passed. Erik called mid-week to confirm their ballet evening and to ask if the High Chaparral Steakhouse would be acceptable. Raoul sent another text, enthusiastically inviting her for Thanksgiving.

Saturday morning dawned overcast and gloomy. Christine dashed about the small apartment doing the required housework, took a leisurely bath, and put her hair up in a French twist. Erik was due at 4:00 so they'd have plenty of time for the drive to the city, dinner, and the theater.

* * *

He wrapped a towel around his waist, grimacing slightly in the chill humid air of the bathroom. Time to turn up the heat again. Erik toweled off swiftly, gently patting the right side of his face dry. Boxers, deodorant, comb through hair. Time to shave.

He had at one point avoided that task, unable to bear the ghastly mess reflected back in the mirror, but the result had been even worse. Now he was able to keep his face turned just enough to avoid the worst of it.

Aftershave? Yes, on one side.

He stepped back and forced himself to look. Long scars, still red and lacing down the leg, smaller, whiter scars across the thigh and hip. Deeper, puckered scars across torso and chest, down the arm, raised and red, slick from the burns, piebald from the grafts. And of course, his face.

He removed the prosthetic from its packaging, gently handling the fragile edges, and applied glue. It was curved to fit his face, padded slightly to give the impression of normal depth of cheek, tinted and as realistic as possible. With the hairpiece glued as well, he looked almost normal, from a distance.

Almost.

Erik turned away, striding into the bedroom, away from a mirror that only spoke the truth; a horrid shell covering the pieces of a man, and just as well, a reminder that the body was nearly as bad as the face, There was no reason for her to see this mess, no reason for her to ever learn the extent of his damage. In her he saw the chance at a future, of the kind of casual compatibility he'd only glimpsed in other couples, but it was a pipe dream. No matter with what kindness she had offered that night, it was foolish to think any woman would ever accept a man so physically and mentally flawed.

 _So keep the evening light, impersonal, between friends. Enjoy that part, don't let it go further._

He pulled the shirt from the hanger.

* * *

Christine answered the door and ushered him inside. The light mist from early afternoon had turned to rain.

"Just one minute more," she promised, fastening an earring and he nodded.

On the TV the weatherman was happily prophesying doom and gloom in the form of a fast-moving front. Erik frowned at it. "We won't be able to linger tonight, if this comes in as they're saying. First snow of the year, or so they think."

Christine emerged from the bedroom. "Snow? This early?"

"Still want to risk it?"

She gave him a dazzling smile. "Of course."

* * *

His hand was warm on the small of her back as they entered the restaurant. The old-fashioned courtesy never failed to make her smile; there was something that made her feel secure in his presence, a sense of being cherished and protected. A member of the wait staff escorted them to their table and bore away their long coats. As on their previous dinner, Erik wore a dark suit and precisely-knotted tie over a white shirt, and sat with the right side of his face to the wall. Did he do it consciously, or was it simply habit by now, she wondered.

They each ordered a glass of wine and made selections from the menu, then fell to talking about various ballets they'd seen. A brief accidental brush of his callused fingers sent a sudden tingle up her arm and across her spine. His hands were mesmerizing, the long elegant tapering fingers of a musician or surgeon. _Playing against skin_ , she thought, and shook herself. _Christine, get a grip_.

Erik looked at her worriedly, breaking off his sentence. "Are you cold?"

She shook her head, a blush rising up on her cheeks. _He doesn't think of you in that way, so stop._

What was the pull she felt toward this man? She had asked how his music was going and Erik's thin face had lit up with pleasure as he described a recent meeting with Dr. Reyer and the prospect of collaborating again with the Music Department. It had been some time since he had taken on a special student or two, or created arrangements for the theater's musicals, plays, and concerts. He was cautiously optimistic at the opportunity to work with the department again.

* * *

They lingered at the restaurant over coffee until time to depart. The wind had picked up in the ensuing hour, biting exposed skin and whipping the decorative banners hung along the avenue.

With still some time before the performance they'd gone to stand in one of the side lounges, an elegant area of subdued lighting, plants, and windows open four floors above. Erik leaned on the brass railings, looking out at the sky with a slight frown. Christine joined him at the polished rail, handing him one of the bottles of water she'd purchased at the Friends of the Ballet concession stand. He gave her his half-smile in thanks.

"When I was here last, they'd not completed the atrium."

"It's beautiful," she said, looking around. "I remember when it was just a hallway. Did your wife ever perform here?" she asked, and could have immediately bitten her tongue, for Erik's face closed and he turned back to the windows.

"Yes."

 _Oh, good going, idiot_ , she thought viciously. _Way to kill the mood, Christine_.

But when Erik turned back to her his face was carefully neutral. "I was on the Arts Alliance committee back then, the one who made the proposals for the building upgrades."

Christine nodded, impressed. "That's the same group which got the tax increase passed, right? For community arts? Theater and kids' programs, summer concerts and all that?"

"Yes."

The lights flickered once, soft chimes sounding throughout the building. Behind them the double doors opened and and an elderly usher stepped out, holding out his hand for tickets. Erik glanced at her.

"Shall we?"

* * *

 _Coppélia_ , as Christine remembered, was the story of a mechanical doll, the crazy old alchemist who'd invented her, Franz, the young man from the village who fancied himself in love, not realizing that she was a doll, and Swanilda, the beautiful girl who had to retrieve her fiancé before the doctor could extract his life force and actually bring his doll-creation to life. Years before, she and Meg had been village children, scampering about the stage and watching the older girls with longing eyes. Now Meg was a principal, wearing a coral red and lace peasant costume, all grace and professionalism.

Their seats were good, mid-orchestra and on the end of a row. They settled in, with Erik turned slightly sideways so his long legs could stretch a bit into the aisle, and arms touching. He'd placed her on his bad side, she realized, and felt an odd protective surge. The warmth of his arm against hers felt easy, intimate, and she relaxed as he opened the program, scanning the biographies of the dancers.

"Is this your friend?" he murmured in her ear, sending all sorts of pleasant shivers down her spine, tapping the page with one long finger. "Meghan Giry?"

Meg smiled up at them from the black and white photo. "Yes. That's Meg. She's Swanilda herself tonight. Coppélia is the girl in the sky-blue costume, the lovely but soulless doll. Meg is the heroine, the peasant girl."

He nodded, leaning back in the seat as the curtains parted, revealing a rural village behind the scrim.

* * *

"That was lovely," Christine sighed as the house lights came up. "She's so talented." She gathered her velvet wrap, and he courteously draped it around her shoulders. "Want to meet them? We can go backstage."

The joined the crowd, walking slowly out of the packed auditorium and into the corridor. Erik glanced up at the huge glass windows where snow was falling from the black sky. "If you wish to, but we can't stay long." He had already pulled out his phone and was looking at the weather updates. She came to stand by him, glancing down at the display.

"Is it bad? We can just go. Meg won't mind."

He nodded. "More coming in, I think. We probably need to get moving." Another blast of cold air swirled through the lobby and he paused. "Wait here, I'll bring the car around." They retrieved their coats from the checkroom and he turned the collar up, vanishing into the darkness.

Outside the snow swirled around his feet, already beginning to stick on exposed surfaces and pile in corners. The wind was fierce. Erik tilted the edge of his fedora down over his face, walking quickly.

The Mercedes was fortunately close; they'd been early enough to secure a good parking space. He turned the heaters on full; no doubt in that thin dress she'd be cold.

"Do you want me to drive?" Christine asked a minute later, as he brought the car around to the entrance and escorted her down the stairs.

"No. The leg is fine and the weather is not."

Erik held the door, tucking her safely inside. She slid the seatbelt across, latching it, and unbuttoned her coat. The Mercedes was warming rapidly. Christine sent Meg a quick text, congratulating her and the cast on a wonderful performance, and apologizing.

 _I know you wanted to meet him, but the snow is getting heavy and the wind has really picked up. Try to get home soon yourself, ok? Don't sleep in your dressing room tonight!_

The phone pinged a moment later. _Sorry to miss you, girlfriend, and thanks for the warning. Next time!_

City traffic rapidly thinned out and soon they were on the winding roads toward home. Snow swirled around the car and the four-lane road was narrowed down to only two. "Hang on," he said tersely, "I want to test the brakes." The Mercedes slid then gripped with a faint clicking sound. "That's what I was afraid of," he said grimly.

"Ice?"

"Yes, but not bad yet. We'll just be very careful…and hope everyone else is."

Christine turned the radio volume low and kept a watch for deer. She must have dozed at some point, for when she woke the seat was reclined slightly and a heavy warmth lay draped across her. Erik's coat, with his own distinct spicy, woodsy scent. She snuggled down into it, opening her eyes. He was focused on the road, seemingly relaxed, his tie loosened and top button undone, in his white shirt sleeves, the jacket discarded somewhere in the back.

She moved the seat back into its upright position, the coat slipping down. He glanced over, his dark eyes warm. "Sleep well?"

Her face flamed. "I'm so sorry…I didn't mean to doze off like that."

He smiled slightly. "You were clearly tired."

"Well, I didn't mean to leave you to drive in this alone."

"It's fine," he said easily. "We are nearly home, perhaps twenty more minutes."

She folded his coat and twisted around to lay it neatly in the back seat. "Thank you," she said awkwardly, but he merely inclined his head in acknowledgement, not taking his eyes from the road.

They pulled up in front of her apartment and Erik walked her up the slippery stairs, stepping inside the door and looking around with a sharp glance. The flat was secure and he waited while Christine turned on lights before heading back to the door.

"Thank you for going with me," she said simply, and he nodded.

"Thank you for inviting me. I enjoyed it." There was an unidentifiable expression in his dark eyes, and impulsively she caught his hand, squeezing it.

"Call or text me when you get home." Something shifted in his expression and Erik inclined his head, stepping back.

He pressed her hand. "Goodnight, Christine."

She stood at the window watching the Mercedes disappear into the swirling snow.

* * *

Thank you for reading, and please review!

~R


	18. Chapter 18 Thanksgiving Break

**A/N** —My apologies for the almost three month delay in updating this story. I've been dealing with a fairly severe case of writer's block. Though the outlines for this and the next several chapters were completed long ago, filling in the gaps has been nigh well impossible. Thank you all for your PMs, notes on Tumblr, and occasional review...they have motivated me to keep struggling with it. I will no doubt revise this chapter at some point in the future, but for now I think it wise to post what I have to move on. This chapter ended up so long I've divided it in half, and am posting both at the same time. Please _please_ review both.

These are fairly Raoul-heavy chapters, but it's likely to be the last of them, and I think you'll see why. Thanks for hanging in there with me! Onward!

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chapter 18 Thanksgiving

2017, 2018

.

The next five weeks left little time for any socialization. She submitted a comparative analysis that was well received, and given the offer to present the paper in the student section at the spring conference of History educators and researchers. The weather got steadily colder, though it did not snow again. The flu season began early, and Christine spent a weekend at Dr. Valerius's house, caring for the elderly lady who had caught a fortunately mild strain of the virus.

Lunch meetings with Raoul were less frequent as their schedules only coincided three days a week this semester. They'd had one minor disagreement toward the end of the month—Meg had invited them both down for the weekend, with the thought of going clubbing or to a movie, complaining that she needed a break from Tchaikovsky and the Nutcracker, but Raoul had shaken his head.

"I can't, Christine. That's the weekend my brother is doing this house party thing. I'd hoped you might be able to come up to it and meet everyone before the break." He'd been slightly put out with her, but Christine was tired herself and somewhat aggravated that he'd not mentioned the house party before. He had been disgruntled, but she'd gone to the city by herself and enjoyed an unaccustomed Friday night off.

* * *

Finally the Thanksgiving Break appeared. Raoul had suggested a week out west at his family home, but she had declined, citing homework and a needed trip back to the capital city to check on the rental property.

They flew out Wednesday morning on Alaska Airlines, using a two-for-one fare saver special for the weekend. "It's a lot faster than driving," Raoul had agreed, though in actuality he'd been looking forward to a long drive alone with Christine. After landing they'd picked up a rental car and headed north toward the outskirts of Seattle, and beyond. He sensed Christine was nervous and spent the flight and drive telling her funny stories about his and Philippe's childhoods.

The car rounded one last curve and turned off onto a long gated driveway. Beside him she suddenly stilled, staring ahead, stunned, and he glanced at her, puzzled. "I think you forgot to tell me a few things," she said quietly.

The house sat on the ridge, three stories tall with two side wings, and a variety of outbuildings. Raoul sighed. "Oh. Um. Yeah. It's a big house."

"How much land do you have?"

"Fourteen thousand acres, give or take," he said simply. "The back half is used for timber and the front for cattle."

"Oh." Her voice was tense and he turned to her.

"I'm sorry, Christine…I never thought to mention it. It doesn't matter. It's just the family estate. It will be okay…don't worry about it." He tried to be reassuring but beside him she was silent.

They pulled up under an enormous portico made of heavy wooden beams and stone. A man stepped out. "Mr. Raoul. It is good to have you home again."

Raoul smiled and handed him the keys. "Thanks, Brendan." He indicated Christine. "This is my friend from university, Christine Daae. She's spending the holiday with us."

The man nodded and smiled at her. "Welcome, Ms Daae." He turned back to Raoul. "I believe your mother is waiting inside. I'll take the car on 'round." He removed their luggage and set it on the steps.

Raoul nodded. "Thanks." He picked up their bags and turned to Christine. "Come on…let's get it over with." Swallowing hard, she followed him through the oak and glass doors. _Get it over with?_

The inside of the house made her think of photos she'd seen of houses from a bygone era of grandeur, something the Rockefellers or Vanderbilts might have owned. The entry was a full two stories high, all polished wood furniture, a mix of western décor and French antiques, stone walls and a huge fireplace. Raoul set the bags down and glanced at her. "Hang on, let me figure out where everyone is." She nodded.

He strode through a large open doorway into a room on the right. After a moment, Christine followed, then stopped at the voices.

"I've put you both in your room. I hope that's fine."

"Well, no, Mother. Christine and I aren't…"

"Well thank God. I hope she's just one of your flings."

" _Stop_ that. You don't have to be nasty. She's a good friend, that's all."

"I hope that's all. She's the one who's just a little schoolteacher, right?"

"God, Mother, do you have to be so unpleasant?"

"I don't see why you can't be more like Philippe and find someone more in your class, darling. But if you aren't sleeping with her, get Marie to move her somewhere else."

Sickened and shaking with fury, Christine moved away from the door, unwilling to listen to anything more. A few minutes later, Raoul returned, his eyes flashing and mouth set in a grim line.

She looked up at him. "Did you find your family?" she asked lightly.

"Yes." His expression stopped her from saying anything more. "I'm sorry if you overheard any of that. I'd like to excuse her, but there is no excuse. She didn't used to be that way, I promise. She's just gotten more…more…I don't know…in recent years." He picked up their bags and started up the long stairway. "Just ignore her. God knows I try to."

* * *

Philippe de Chagny turned out to be the polar opposite of his brother. Tall but much more slim, his dark brown hair was already beginning to recede and his brown eyes were tired behind gold-rimmed glasses. He welcomed Christine absently and offered her a glass of wine, which she declined. Apparently the family held to the cocktail hour tradition. Raoul poured himself a short finger of something amber colored from a decanter on the sideboard and made a pretense of drinking it.

Aimee de Chagny was a petite woman with perfectly frosted hair and gym-thin, wearing designer clothing and arty chunky jewelry. Christine fought down a wave of instant dislike and forced a smile. "Mrs. De Chagny, thank you for allowing me to spend the holiday in your lovely home."

She arched her eyebrows. "We're so glad to meet one of Raoul's _friends_ ," she said airily, and lightly touched Christine's outstretched hand with cool fingers before turning away.

Louis de Chagny did not appear in the lounge, nor did he come down to dinner. Aimee de Chagny sent first one of the servants and then Philippe to call him, but eventually was forced to go on in to dinner without him. Raoul came to stand beside Christine and gently turned her toward the window, pointing out stables, a hay barn, and work shed, and naming the mountain range in the distance, pointedly sheltering her from his mother's view until dinner was announced. Though the beef dish, rolls, and vegetables were well prepared and delicious, the meal was a strained affair with Mrs. de Chagny tapping her long manicured fingernail against the edge of the china, drinking several glasses of wine and getting more shrill. Christine was relieved when it was over and she could escape.

Her bag had been moved down the hallway to a guest room, and she had to admit the room put any hotel accommodations to shame. The large, high queen-sized bed with matching night stands, a mirrored dresser, a small writing table, a wide armchair and side table all looked comfortable. There were two doors; one leading out to a balcony, and another to a private bathroom.

She changed into pajamas and robe after a quick bath. The deep chair was inviting and she didn't feel quite ready for bed. Tossing her latest trashy novel on the chair, Christine began poking around the large room, happily discovering a tea/coffee maker tucked into a cabinet, along with an assortment of teabags, cocoa packets, and coffee singles, and a tin containing sugar, creamers, and a packet of butter cookies. Good. She wouldn't have to go downstairs again for a snack. She'd just made a cup of cocoa when there came a knocking on the door.

"Christine? It's Raoul."

She opened the door and he stepped in, looking embarrassed. "Hi…I just wanted to make sure you were ok and settled for the night. Is there anything you need?"

Christine shook her head. "I'm fine." She gestured at the mug. "As you can see, I've found everything."

He nodded. "Listen, I'm so sorry about dinner tonight. Dad's busy, I guess, Philippe's not well, and Mom…she's, well, yeah. Under a lot of stress, I guess. But still, she shouldn't have been so rude." He grimaced. "We'll try to stay out of her way tomorrow as much as possible. My sister's coming in so that will keep Mom occupied." He paused a moment. "Hey Chris, do you ride? As in horses? We could go out tomorrow and see the range."

"I've been riding, but I'm not very good. I can mount, stay on a horse, know what to do…I'm just not very experienced. Is that ok?"

Raoul smiled. "Hope you brought warm gear. I'll get Don to have a couple horses saddled and ready after breakfast and we'll go. I have some places I'd like to show you…and it will get us out of the house!"

He paused in the doorway and looked back at her. "Hey, I'm glad you're here, Chris. Goodnight." He hesitated a moment, then gave her a warm smile and shut the door.

* * *

Louisa arrived the next morning just after breakfast, clutching a large red leather binder. She had the family height and a tawny mane of streaked-blond hair, with designer jeans and high heels clothing her aggressively thin body. She swept through the entrance hall, dismissing Christine with one look, and pinned Raoul with a steely glare.

" _Where_ is Mother?"

He sighed. "In the breakfast room. Hello, Louisa."

She whirled back on him. "Call me _Elle!_ " she hissed, and vanished through the doorway.

Raoul turned back to Christine with an apologetic shrug. "Meet my sister."

"Elle?" She stared after the woman.

He rolled his eyes. "Her middle name. Louisa Catherine Elle de Chagny. She's suddenly decided that it suits her better."

"Um," Christine could think of nothing to say and simply nodded.

He gestured after her. "She's getting married in the spring, and everything, I swear to God, _everything_ , is a crisis. What's the term for it?"

"Bridezilla?"

He snorted. "Yeah, that. Let's get away before we get caught in it. Come on, I'll show you the house first."

The house had been originally constructed in the late 1800s, Christine discovered, then added onto, redecorated, and modernized over the decades, but always staying in the family. Raoul happily gave her the guided tour of the sprawling building, pointing out bits of the original central structure, artwork, and antiques. The family had invested in silver mines, land, cattle, sheep, horses, horse racing, and railroads early on, he told her, and many of the de Chagny men had apparently possessed the magic financial touch.

"Phil's got the money brains in our generation," he said ruefully. "I'm good with the paperwork, insurance, managing the investments, all that jazz, but Phil knows when and where to invest and when to get out. He's like my dad all over again, and that's why he'll be taking over when Dad finally retires."

There was a tightness in his voice, and Christine, leaning on the balcony rail overlooking the foyer, turned to him.

"And what will you do?"

"Oh, I'm sure I'll end up as the second vice-president in charge of something," he quipped, but there was an undercurrent of bitterness, and Christine pressed his arm in sympathy.

* * *

Thanksgiving dinner was an event in itself. Christine had offered to help with preparations, and Aimee de Chagny had raised elegant eyebrows in surprise. The cook and staff would deal with preparations, it seemed. Smiling tightly, Christine had excused herself with the pretense of a headache and retired to her room.

Meg's family had much the same background and money, but her house had always felt like a home. Christine made herself a cup of tea and carried it out to the balcony, shivering but needing some fresh air. She'd never felt awkward and out of place at the Giry's, and though they'd had staff as well, everyone had helped with holidays, cooking and decorating.

Reluctantly Christine turned to go back inside. Raoul had warned her that dinner would be a formal occasion, so she'd packed the black dress. With luck the wrinkles would had fallen out overnight as it had hung in the closet.

* * *

They'd gathered in the lounge as per the night before, an evening ritual it seemed. Louis de Chagny joined the group tonight, bringing two other men downstairs with him. One was a state senator; Christine recognized him from photos, the other a business partner. A third young man turned out to be Elle-Louisa's fiancé, a pretentious young man who spent more time talking with the other men than he did with his fiancée, to her growing irritation. Christine accepted a glass of rosé and stood close to Raoul, who was watching Philippe and his father with concern.

"Is everything ok?" she murmured, and he frowned.

"Does he look tired, to you?"

She took another sip of the wine, trying not to appear obvious. Louis de Chagny looked the part of a typical businessman, wearing a suit, and with a slightly receding hairline. He had the aura of a once-powerful man gone soft, and his florid face bore a frown.

"No? He looks annoyed though, I think."

Raoul shook his head. "Maybe it's nothing." He offered an arm. "Shall we go in?"

* * *

Dinner was a multi-course affair starting with oyster soup and progressing through turkey, ham, and the traditional sides. Someone must have added additional leaves to the table since the previous evening, as there were now nearly a dozen family and business partners seated. Conversation stayed firmly on arts topics or non-political current events. At one point Christine decided that she was not above casual name-dropping and mentioned that she'd be seeing the Girys soon. Raoul, with a quick wicked grin, caught her intent and inquired if she meant the Montana Girys, and Aimee de Chagny's haughty manner eased somewhat.

Dessert was served in the lounge, a variety of pies with coffee and tea waiting on the antique sideboard. People began to drift away afterwards. Louis de Chagny's business partners extended their compliments and departed, leaving just the family. After he returned from escorting them to the door, Elle-Louisa seized her red wedding planner notebook, determinedly cornering her parents and fiancé to discuss the upcoming nuptials.

"Time to go." Raoul mouthed the words, catching Christine's eyes. She nodded and the two of them began gathering the used dessert plates and glasses, carrying them to the kitchen. They tiptoed up the back stairs, Elle-Louisa's shrill voice following them.

He gave her a conspiratorial grin. "That was close. Do you feel like going for a walk or a ride?"

Christine groaned. "That, or a long nap. That was a wonderful meal, but I ate far too much, and it's getting dark."

"How about a ride tomorrow, then. I'll have Don saddle a Clydesdale for you," he grinned.

"Do you have one?" she asked hopefully. "I've always loved them in the commercials."

"Sadly, no, but have no fear. Did you bring boots?"

"Hiking boots." She frowned. "I hope those will work."

"Sure. We'll take a quick walk down the driveway tonight. Meet me at the back door when you're dressed. Don't forget a coat."

* * *

They escaped the house after breakfast the following morning.

The stables barn was one of the various outbuildings located behind the main house, a long building with overhead fans and a dozen half doors, where hopeful heads leaned out, watching with pricked ears and intelligent brown eyes. Two horses were hitched at the end, being brushed by an older man in boots. He nodded at their approach.

The horses' names were Patton and Sky Dancer, a bay gelding and brown mare. Dancer snuffled Christine's hand hoping for a treat and Raoul laughed, offering her a large carrot, which she broke in half to give each horse a bite. They mounted and rode out past the corral, heading along the eastern fence, the horses finding their way on a path they'd patrolled many times before. Raoul pointed out various landmarks and sections of the property as they walked side by side, dried grasses rimed with frost making a pleasant crunch under the horses' hooves.

The ranch was enormous, acres of Jeffrey Pine, Ponderosa Pine, and Douglass Fir surrounding open range land and scattered ponds. Cattle sheds were scattered across fields, where black and brown dots wandered. Raoul sat easily on his mount, explaining the operational side of the ranch: rotational grazing, water access, grain, salt and mineral supplements, and veterinary care. Trees were harvested and replanted in stages, sold for their pulp or for use as utility poles. Deer, turkey, and bear were common, with frequent elk, moose, bobcat, and cougar sightings.

"You enjoy this," she teased him, smiling, and he laughed.

"This was my favorite part, growing up, getting to ride out and help with the actual working of the ranch. I miss it, don't get to do it very often any more."

The grey sky was lowering and after an hour reluctantly they turned the horses' heads back home. By the time they were in sight of the upper paddock tiny flakes were beginning to drift lazily from the clouds. Raoul pulled up in a grove of pine trees and sat in silence, looking down at the house. It was a scene from a painting, the great house against the darkening sky, golden light spilling from the windows.

"I hope you've enjoyed the visit," he said quietly, "and I'm glad you're here. You've been an oasis of sanity for me, some peace in the chaos of the last few months." His mouth twisted wryly. "You don't know how much I appreciate it."

Unsure what to say, Christine let the horse side-step a bit, then pulled her up. "Well, I appreciated the invitation," she said awkwardly. "It's been interesting meeting your family, and the ranch is fantastic."

He reached up and brushed a stray curl from her cheek with a leather-gloved finger. "I don't suppose you'd consider coming back sometime...maybe make it permanent?"

Christine stared at him. "Are you asking me...what I think you're saying?"

He turned to face her, his blue eyes intense. No doubt she was unaware how attractive she was, with tiny snowflakes like sparkles on her brown hair, cheeks flushed from the cold. "I like you a lot, Chris, more than any girl I've ever dated. You're so grounded. I know we haven't even...but there's time to still get to know each other. If you wanted to, of course," he said hastily. "I can't do anything until I graduate with my MBA, but then we could move here. You can teach anywhere; it doesn't have to be in Montana. Just think about it, ok?" He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

"Raoul, don't, please..." she said, flustered. "We barely know each other, and I have a degree to complete as well. I can't just...make a decision like that. Everyone, everything I know is in Montana."

He put his large warm hand over hers. "We'd be here, though. And you wouldn't ever need to work, if you didn't want to."

 _Oh God, he really did mean it._ "Raoul," she began, "I don't know what to say." She bit her lip. "I'm not sure...I don't think of you that way." It was true, she realized, even as he pulled back, mouth tightening. She rushed on. "You're a great friend, and I like you a lot, but I don't...I don't think I love you like that."

"Friends," he said bitterly. "I thought we had more than that. And my feelings don't matter?"

She winced. "Not for something like this." She put out a hand. "Please...I don't want to hurt you, but I can't. It just wouldn't work."

He turned away, staring down at the house. "Okay," he said shortly. "Then forget I said anything. We'll just go on being _friends_."

"Raoul," she began, hating hurting him, but he was already moving past her, back to the trail.

They rode back to the house in silence.

* * *

Thank you for reading, and please leave a review! I hope that two chapters at once makes up for the delay!

~R


	19. Chapter 19 December

**A/N** —Thank you all so much for the wonderful reviews on the last two chapters. I hope to get back to a semi-regular posting schedule now.

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chp 19 December

2017, 2018

Erik shut off the Mercedes' engine, sitting for a minute as the garage door slowly closed against the night behind him. The bi-weekly grocery run was completed. He missed the days of Christine's cheerful delivery to his front door. Now he was forced to use the online order and pickup system. It was infinitely preferable to having to actually walk through the store, but getting the sacks upstairs was a right pain.

He pulled the walker, a reminder of his tedious recovery, from the corner and wheeled it to the rear of the car. He'd wedged a laundry basket between the handles the year before, giving him a way to transport heavy objects, and berated himself for the hundredth time as to why he hadn't installed a dumbwaiter when the house was built.

Once upstairs, he piled the kitchen counter with sacks and poured himself a needed drink. The phone message light was blinking, and he tapped the button impatiently. Jules Reyer's acerbic voice asked for him to call back.

Reyer had contacted him back at the beginning of the semester to ask if Erik might be willing to take on a special student, one who was applying for the prestigious Barton Scholarship for graduate students. They'd met over coffee off-campus to discuss the matter.

"Why can't Ricky Van Eaton handle it?" he'd groused, and Reyer raised wiry brows.

"Chemo, Erik, remember?"

"No," he snapped. "I don't. It's not as if I receive the departmental memos anymore. What's wrong with Rick?"

"Liver cancer. He found out back in July and has been out ever since. I wouldn't ask you if this wasn't important."

Erik flushed. "I'm sorry; that's terrible news. Rick's a good man and I hope he recovers. Does this kid have any talent?"

Reyer raised his bushy eyebrows. "I wouldn't ask you if he didn't. It would be quite a coup for us to have a student win that award. His name is Kevin Spencer, by the way."

He sighed. "I'll think about it. Does he know about..." he made a vague gesture and Reyer shook his head.

"No, but I don't think it matters. He's desperate, and so are we. Rick was his advisor, and I don't want him to just drift this semester. He needs a firm hand, and you've been fantastic with these kids before. I'm not asking you to take on the whole class, Erik, just this one student. As a favor to me, and for Rick. He's the one who suggested you, though I'd have asked you myself. It could be a foot in the door for you again, if you wanted. Think about it."

"I'll think about," he said irritably, "but I make no promises."

He had, in the end, agreed to take on the supervisory duties and was introduced to a slightly portly student with glasses and a shock of red hair. To Erik's relief, the young man showed no interest in his personal life beyond an arrogant demand to know his qualifications. His world revolved solely about two things, his skill on the piano and his boyfriend. They'd met at the practice rooms on a regular basis, and once or twice in the Bartlett Center lounge.

Helping prepare the young man for his auditions had been a welcome distraction over the course of the last few months. Kevin was as polished and set as possible, with four pieces ready for the competition. Now with the end of the semester approaching and the prospect of empty hours, Erik allowed his thoughts to turn elsewhere, in the silence of his home.

* * *

They'd barely made the flight out before the next wave of snow. It was an uncomfortable journey; Raoul was preoccupied with his laptop, and she could see business-related spreadsheets on the screen. Whether they were for his classes or the ranch she couldn't tell, and he did not offer. He was as always unfailingly courteous, helping her with the luggage, but beyond that he was quiet. Nor did Christine feel much like talking. She could only hope things would smooth over eventually.

The first weekend of December Christine had woken with a sense of loss, having neither seen nor heard from Raoul during the previous week. Nothing to be done for it but move forward, and so she gave the little apartment a cathartic and much-needed house cleaning, replacing the autumn décor with Christmas colors, and discovering a bowl of fruit hiding in the back of the refrigerator that was threatening to become sentient.

When bananas were this brown, the only thing to do was to make banana bread, Christine decided. She'd just reached for the ancient box of her mother's recipes when the phone rang.

The number was a familiar one. "Hey."

"Hey yourself. How are things down south?"

Christine dropped onto the couch with a smile. "Going pretty well. Hard to be back in the student end of things, but well. How is everyone?"

Ann Northcutt grinned at the phone. "We've hit the crazy phase of December already. Be glad you're gone. We've got a set of helicopter parents that are driving everyone wild. And that new guy they hired to replace you is something else. He has tats and a man-bun. The parents are up in arms."

Christine laughed. It was so good to hear from her former work-mate. "So what's up?"

"Will and I were putting together the annual ski trip and wondered if you were still interested."

"Sure! Where to, this time?"

"Breckenridge, I think."

"I thought you swore you'd never go back there."

Ann grimaced at the phone. "Will says I need to get over my fear of compound fractures."

Christine laughed. "Sounds reasonable. When are you all going? Same time?"

Her former co-worker nodded. "Yes, the 26th-30th. Do you want a single or share a double room?"

"Single, if possible."

They chatted a few more minutes about school and hung up. Ann was their resident crazy science teacher. She and her husband organized a group ski trip every year, and Christine was pleasantly surprised to be remembered for it. She was not a competitive skier, but always enjoyed the mountains. Seeing the old crowd again would be fun.

* * *

The final two weeks of the semester flew by in a blur of assignments and test review, then Dead Week loomed with finals on the horizon. Her phone calendar filled with study sessions, due dates, and library reminders. There was a light at the end of the semester, though, and Christine informed the Task Rabbit office she would be available again for errands once her calendar cleared.

The college town hung cheery red-and-green banners, frizzy candy canes and holly, and big red bows on the lamp posts. With the incessant snow it all looked quite pretty. Even her apartment complex had finally gotten into the spirit, placing a set of leering elves and giant baubles at the entrance gates. Christine resolved to drop by Wal-Mart and purchase a string of lights for her deck railing and window.

Martha Valerius called and asked about Christine's plans for the winter break, then offered an invitation to go shopping and bake Christmas goodies once finals were over. The flu had left her weak and slow to recover, but she was determined to make no changes in the annual family tradition. Christine accepted, partially out of worry for her elderly friend, and partially from a genuine desire to see the old lady again.

But the phone was otherwise silent. She'd texted Raoul once, hoping to smooth things over and also to thank him again for his weekend hospitality. They'd met for lunch, keeping the conversation carefully impersonal. She could only hope that in time the memories and awkwardness would lessen.

* * *

Erik wanted to see her again.

Working with the young musician at the university had taken a great deal of his spare hours, the remainder devoted to a backlog of ruined or damaged instruments that cried for hands for play them again, if only they could be repaired. It was in those quiet hours in the shop downstairs with his hands busy that his mind had time to wander, and wander it did, about three miles north and west.

Christine had been the cause of a series of sleepless nights. The memory of her body, warm and pressed against his during their dance had sustained him through too many solitary evenings. She'd smiled at him, touched him, and he wanted more, craved it like some sick starving animal. It had been a long dry spell; she'd awoken thoughts and desires he'd thought frozen.

Nothing good was going to come of this sudden interest, Erik told himself. Hell, if he admitted it it wasn't a sudden interest; he'd been interested for months, since Christine had come into his life. She was busy, though, with her Master's studies and with that blond-haired man. That handsome, blond-haired man, he reminded himself, one lip curling. She'd been friendly toward, him, nothing more, and he'd be a fool to think otherwise.

Erik set the repaired lute into the cradle he'd built especially for it, carefully bracing the neck, screwed shut the lid on the varnish jar, and dropped the brush into cleaner. He leaned back in the chair, raking one hand through his disheveled hair and grimacing, stretching to ease stiff muscles, and crossed the room, stumbling a bit, snapping off the light. Nothing more could be done until the varnish dried, and he was too tired to focus on another project.

The refrigerator yielded a plate of leftover chicken and noodles and there was stale coffee from the morning; he poured a mug and left the microwave deal with it. Erik leaned against the sink, easing his bad leg, rolling his shirt sleeves back down scarred forearms. He'd watch the news, eat, and have a drink before heading to bed.

He carried the mug and plate to the table, across from where she'd sat. That was her place; he could see her there still in his tired imagination, smiling at him. Dammit, he wanted to see her again. He stabbed a bite angrily, then reached for the phone.

* * *

"Christine." She shivered as his voice wrapped around her, dark and seductive as melted chocolate.

"Erik! It's good to hear from you. I've missed you. What's up?"

She had missed him? He felt a pleasant warmth slowly spread in his chest. "I thought perhaps we might celebrate the end of the semester."

"That sounds like a wonderful idea," she said fervently. "What did you have in mind?"

He took the plunge. "Christine, were you serious when you said you would like to hear the piano again? We could have dinner here...or out...and have an evening of music."

"I would love to do that," she responded warmly, to his relief. "When, what day?"

"Your finals are over with on Friday, yes? Then perhaps that night, or the following night?"

"Friday would be fine. What can I bring?"

"Only yourself. There is a price for the evening, though."

"What's that?"

"You must promise to sing with me."

* * *

"It's a wreath, Erik," Christine teased. "You hang it on your door or mailbox or something. People even wire them on the front of their cars."

He stood in the living room holding the fragrant decoration as though it might suddenly turn into a live tarantula, and shuddered. "Absolutely not. You may affix it to the front door, if you insist."

"Scrooge." She took the detested object back from him.

"He had the right idea. The holidays are an appalling waste of time, filled with advertisements designed to separate the unwary from their money."

Christine braced the heavy door with one foot and hung the pine and fir wreath on a metal hook, adjusting it to sit evenly. "There, doesn't it look festive?"

"Fine," he said sourly, and she laughed.

"I refuse to believe you are such a Grinch." He merely raised one eyebrow in response.

"You shall be sorely disappointed. I wouldn't stop Christmas from coming, but I want no part of it."

She'd called before coming over to dinner, asking if he needed any last-minute items. Erik had admitted to being low on ice, and she'd stopped to buy a bag. The local Boy Scouts were outside the grocery store, selling Christmas trees and other greenery, and she'd stopped to buy the wreath, remembering the endless club fundraisers of her youth.

He had met her at the door wearing dark jeans, a sweater, and the white mask. Christine been oddly pleased that he'd finally relaxed enough around her to be comfortable. Dinner had been chicken in some mysterious dark sauce, rice, and stir-fried vegetables. She had offered to help but Erik had shaken his head, saying that it was mostly done. Instead she'd leaned against the sink, enjoying his smoothly economical movements around the kitchen, sipping the glass of wine he'd offered. For such a tall man, he moved well, carrying himself without arrogance, but a certain grace.

* * *

After dinner, they'd piled dishes by the sink and taken their drinks into the living room. Erik leaned back comfortably against the leather chair, swirling the deep red wine around in his glass. "What are your plans for the interim break, Christine?"

"Christmas, you mean?" Christine leaned her chin on her hand, staring into the fire and sighed. "Meg's invited me up for a couple days as soon as the term's over. I'll go see her perform in the _Nutcracker_ —it's a tradition—and we'll get some shopping done, maybe go see a movie. She usually crashes pretty hard once _Nutcracker_ season is over. Some friends from school have invited me skiing between Christmas and New Year's."

"I didn't know you skied."

She smiled wryly. "Oh yes. I'm not any good, just greens and blues, but I love the trees and snow, the mountains. We always rent out a couple big condos and split the costs. We cook in most nights and pack lunches, so it's pretty affordable. We'll be at Breckenridge in Colorado this year. Probably leave on the 26th and get back late on the 30th."

He frowned slightly and took a sip of his drink. "Any plans for the holiday itself?"

"No," she said softly, but her voice revealed a trace of melancholy. "I guess I'll be here. I mean, I'm sure Meg would have me down, but…it's the only time her whole family gets together and I hate to impose."

She forced the sadness away and glanced over at him. "What about you, Erik? Going anywhere?"

He took a slow, measured sip from the wine. "I'll be here. Christmas is just another day."

She looked up, hopeful. "Maybe we can do something—dinner, at least. This Christmas is going to suck. I've been trying not to think about it."

"Yes," he said gently, "your family." Erik dipped his head, catching her eyes. "I am so sorry…this will indeed be a very difficult time of year for you."

Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them away angrily. "It is, but I guess I'll have to get used to that."

"Would you have any interest in attending the Music Department's Madrigal Dinner?"

"I would, yes, but I didn't think there were any tickets left," she said, surprised.

There would be, or Reyer would never hear the end of it.

"Do we need to dress up?"

"Yes, it's formal. Your blue gown will do nicely."

"Then I accept," she said with a smile. "I've been wondering how to fill the time."

Erik gazed into the fire, turning an idea over in his mind. He leaned forward, lifting the poker and stirring the fire. "Christine, if it would not be…if you'd like, you'd be welcome to spend the weekend with me, here. I haven't any family either, and I do have a guest room; you'd be welcome to it," he said in a rush.

She stared at him, conflicting emotions of relief and discomfort warring. _Was h_ _e_ _feeling sorry for her?_ She straightened. "Erik," she said awkwardly, "I appreciate it, but I only live a couple miles away."

He sat back in the chair, a dull flush on color on his good cheekbone. "No matter, Christine. It was just a thought."

She reached toward him. "No…I appreciate it. I just don't want to be a nuisance, and I don't want to interfere with your plans. It's not my first Christmas without my parents, but...I'd appreciate not being alone. I just don't want to put you to any effort."

"I would enjoy the company," he said quietly. "It gets very lonely here, especially over the holidays. But I'd better warn you—I don't decorate or anything. However, it might be nice to have a holiday meal."

"But…your family?"

"I haven't any family or plans," he said shortly. "Never mind; it was a foolish idea."

Christine blinked. _No family?_

"You don't have any family either?" she said stupidly.

Erik rose abruptly and moved toward the piano, tracing its elegant black lines, then rubbed his neck, a movement she'd begun to notice meant stress. "No. I was a foster child, one of the unloved and unwanted ones." His voice was bitter.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she whispered, stricken. "I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't. Who would advertise the fact that their own mother didn't want them?" He rubbed the tight muscles with one hand, avoiding her eyes.

"Did you know your parents at all?" Her voice was soft, curious but compassionate.

"Oh yes. Or my mother, at least. I have no idea whom my father was. She may not even have known. They were both very young. My mother had been home-schooled and kept on a tight leash. The moment she could get away she went wild, got pregnant, and _her_ mother never forgave her. Beat her and yelled at her, and so my mother…let it flow downhill. Finally one of my teachers reported the abuse to DHS and they took me away. I lived in foster homes after that, some better than others, but never really was ever a part of any family." His voice had gone tight with old pain, grievances, and injustice. "The few times I ended up somewhere good my mother saw to it I was moved, demanded me back. She didn't want me, but she also didn't want anyone else to have me."

 _At least I had a family who loved me._ "I'm so sorry," she said again. "That's awful."

He continued on, as if he hadn't heard her. "So Christmas is just another day. I thought you might…but never mind."

Christine rose and touched his arm gently. "I didn't know you didn't have anyone, either. So if the invitation is still open, yes, I'd like to stay." She looked up at him, at his painful thinness and haunted eyes behind the mask, and thought she saw a flicker of relief.

Impulsively, she offered her earlier idea, eyes sparkling. "Erik? Would you consider going to midnight mass with me? Just for the music? My church at home always did a great evening service." She hurried on, seeing his expression turn derisive. "You don't have to believe in it, just go with me. They always decorate and bring in extra musicians. It's a lovely service, all the old hymns. I'd love to hear you sing again."

Erik shifted and gave her a dark look. "Christine," he began, "I am not much into religion, as you know."

Her blue eyes were beseeching. "But it's the music! And it would give us something to do. Please?"

There was no way to resist those pleading eyes. "All right," he said grumpily, then had to smile. "Only for you." She squeezed his arm in delight. "I will attend the service with you, and get the guest room ready. But be warned; I don't decorate or bake cookies, or any of that nonsense."

She laughed at his dour pronouncement. "That's ok. I'm going to spend a day with Dr. Valerius—she wants help shopping and then baking. I think her whole family is coming in for Christmas. I'll bring some treats with me. Even fruitcake." She shot him a teasing glance under her eyelashes.

"Don't you even think about it." But his eyes were amused, and Erik seated himself at the piano, raising the cover over the keyboard. "What can I interest you in tonight, assuming you still want to sing?" His fingers wandered the keys, pulling phrases and snatches of songs from the seemingly random patterns.

"I'd rather listen to you." She flashed him a smile and Erik shook his head.

"Oh no, there is a price tag for the music, I warned you already. You have to sing with me."

"But Erik, I really am awful." She tried one more time and he gave her that dry half-smile.

"Then we'll work on your voice as well. Now choose. What will it be tonight?"

Work on her voice? A sudden vision of him standing very close, his hands touching her back, her face, on her hips as he moved behind her, straightening her posture. Christine took a deep breath. "Oldies?"

"How old of oldies," he murmured, and she gulped, hoping he couldn't see her flush.

"Old oldies. Like Sinatra or Nat King Cole, or Nelson Riddle."

"Ah. The Standards. You remembered. That we can do." His fingers transitioned smoothly into Sinatra's _Mood Indigo_.

"You ain't been blue….no no no….You ain't been blue….'til you've had that…mood indigo…."

 _Of course I remembered._ His long thin fingers caressed the keys as that voice wrapped around her. _You could get lost in his voice_ , she thought, bemused, and came to lean against the piano, watching him.

He glanced up, locking eyes on her softened expression. "In the evenin' when the lights are low….I'm so lonely I could cry..." and was rewarded with a shiver.

"'Cause there's nobody who cares about me..." He transferred his gaze back to the keys. "I'm just a soul who's blue-er than blue can be….when I get that mood indigo, I could lay me down and die..."

He let the notes drift away and looked up with a smile. "That Frank Sinatra?"

Christine nodded. "I love that album."

"It's from " _In the Wee Small Hours_ , isn't it?" His fingers found the opening notes of the title song before he remembered the lyrics. Well, stopping now was awkward.

"In the wee small hours of the morning, when the whole wide world is fast asleep, you lie awake and think about the girl, and never ever think of counting sheep. When your lonely heart has learned its lesson—you'd be hers if only she would call! In the wee small hours of the morning….that's the time you miss her most...of...all."

The underlying throb of pain in his low voice since a pulse of emotion through her, and Christine mentally flinched. Why was she always reminding him of his loss?

His fingers finished the song. "Your turn." Erik gave her an encouraging smile, and reached up, smoothing back a stray strand of dark hair. "How about some Linda Ronstadt? You two are about in the same range."

Christine's eyes widened slightly. "No way am I that good."

"Try it," he said easily, and she thought frantically of the songs in her collection.

"Do you know _Little Girl Blue_?" It had been a favorite when she was too young to know the underlying meaning, merely thinking it a pretty phrase.

"Yes."

She took a hefty swallow of her wine. _Dutch courage, Christine_. Erik's long hands pulled the opening notes from the keys, and she took a breath.

"Sit there and count your fingers, what can you do? Oh girl, you're though. Sit there and count your little fingers, unlucky little girl blue…. Sit there and count the raindrops falling you. It's time you knew-all you can count on is the raindrops that fall on little girl blue…."

He swayed slightly on the bench, playing a simple progression of background chords to accompany her.

"Not bad," he inclined his head at the end, and Christine released the breath she'd been holding. "Straighten up a bit, lift your chest. Roll your shoulders back and relax them. Let's try something else, now that you're warmed up a bit."

" _You Go To My Head_? That's a good one."

"Indeed it is, but it needs a guitar, I think," he murmured. "Just a minute." He reached behind the piano and picked up a Martin 12-string, settling it in his lap, testing the strings for tune, tightening one screw.

"Is there anything you don't do well?" she teased, and he looked up, startled, then shook his head. "Yes. Far too many things."

"Like what."

"I am a terrible plumber," he said, deadpan.

 _You can...Jesus, Christine, get a grip._

"Ready?" He finished fiddling with the tuning screws and began the opening notes. "Shoulders back, deep breath, in...out…

"You go to my head..." _Oh lord, what was she doing, singing torch songs to this man?_ "And I find the very mention of you like the kicker in a julep or two. The thrill of the thought that you might give a thought to my plea, casts a spell over me! Still I say to myself get a hold of yourself ( _no kidding_ )...Can't you see that it never can be? You go to my head...with a smile that makes my temperature rise ( _yes_ ), like a summer with a thousand Julys. You intoxicate my soul with your eyes. ( _God yes, those dark, bittersweet eyes_ ) Though I'm certain that this heart of mine hasn't a ghost of a chance in this crazy romance...you go to my head..."

But oh god it was true.

Surely it was just the wine talking.

They moved into _Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered_ next, before Erik lightened the mood with a fast-paced, jazzy rendition of _New York, New York_ , and they ended the evening later with the Nat and Natalie Cole duet version of _Unforgettable_. Her voice had simply given out, unused to singing for long periods as if she meant it, and let him finish the song alone. It was the most relaxed she'd ever seen him, sitting at the piano in his shirt sleeves.

"It's getting late," he said with regret, as they gathered glasses and dessert plates, taking them back to the kitchen. "And I've abused your voice enough for one night."

"I've enjoyed it, and I'd love to do it again."

Christine insisted on helping to load the dishwasher and put away the leftovers, then reluctantly picked up her purse and coat. Erik walked with her out into the freezing night air to her car.

"Thank you for a lovely evening," Christine said softly. Erik, standing close, turned his head to catch her words, looking down at her. The moonlight rendered the white mask into stark relief, his dark eyes disappearing in the shadows. Her eyes widened slightly and she stepped back. Erik nodded formally, fighting a nauseating wave of disappointment.

"Goodnight, Christine. Call me when you get home."

* * *

Hours after she left, Erik was still sitting at the piano, a half-empty glass of scotch in front of him, shirt sleeves rolled up over scarred forearms. Sinatra's music would not leave his head.

"Fools rush in, so here I am….Very glad to be unhappy...I can't win, but here I am …more than glad to be unhappy. Unrequited love's a bore ...and I've got it pretty bad… but for someone you adore...it's a pleasure to be sad..."

* * *

Up next...a Christmas encounter. Thanks for reading, and please leave a comment.

~R


	20. Chapter 20 Christmas

**A/N—** It's a ridiculous beast of a long chapter. I probably should have cut it into two parts and posted both at once, but there wasn't any really good dividing point. :S

Apologies for the language below, but Meg is annoyed with her friend.

 **MyFictionalDarlings** —Gah, I hope so. I'm always so afraid these chapters, especially the long ones, are boring.

 **AnotherSilentObserver** —Glad you caught the reference! ;)

 **UnconventionaLove** —Nope, not telling. You'll have to use your imagination. But it was hot, I can assure you.

 **Gloriana Femina** —Fear not, Khan does show up.

 **Animekitty47** —Yep. I love that era.

 **LauraCane22** —Alas, Erik doesn't ski. No chance as a kid, bad knee now. But now I want to write a side story with her coming back to him after a long day on the slopes...asdflajdflakjd.

 **Squishmich** —Maaaaayyyybeeeee

 **YoursAnonymous** —I'll take that as a compliment! Yes, we'll learn more later.

Finally, **Wheel of Fish** , the mistletoe scene is completely your fault. ;)

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chp 20 Christmas

2017, 2018

.

"Jesus, girl, there are times I want to slap you upside the head." Meg's voice was utterly disgusted. "You're there in the moonlight, been singing the most romantic ballads in the history of ever, and you don't KISS THE MAN? Where the hell are your brains?"

"I don't know," she said glumly. "I'm stupid, I guess. The guy's brilliant, rich, talented, and what am I? Oh yeah, a 'little schoolteacher,'" she said bitterly.

"Now stop that self-deprecating shit right now," Meg snapped. "Raoul was falling all over you. Sounds like Erik is too. If you want this guy, then stop being stupid and go for it. I don't care what he looks like. You like him, he's nice to you, better than a lot of the dreck out there. He keeps inviting you to things. Take the damn hint, woman."

Christine choked on a laugh. "Thanks, Meg. I'm going to see him again in a few days and I'll try not to be such an idiot this time."

She found herself singing a slightly modified version of Ella Fitzgerald's _My Funny Valentine_ around the house for the next several days, poking fun at herself for being stupid. True, he'd not shown any interest in her beyond that of friendship, and no doubt the man seemed to lead a solitary existence. But Meg had pointed out that Erik had, for a private man, invited her to several events. There had to be _some_ interest there….

* * *

The college town boasted a variety of shopping centers, but no mall and few upscale establishments. No doubt most people went up to the city for such things. After some searching, Christine bought a new racquetball racket, a glove, and can of balls for Raoul as a peace offering. He'd been complaining about his old one for some time. The salesman assured her that the bright blue model was of excellent quality, for a near-professional level player. For Meg she found a gossamer-like silk scarf, its shifting colors perfect to go with any outfit. She tied it around a bottle of her friend's favorite liqueur, fashioning a perky bow. There were only two other gifts this year. She intended to get something for Dr. Valerius, but what? Nothing that was an "old lady" gift, such as a shawl or candle. She'd have to think on that one. And then there was Erik. She'd agreed to spend the holiday with him, and that included Christmas morning. She'd need something as a gift, even if he forgot.

Mercy, the downtown was crazy. She parked the Honda near a central spot on the old strip. The storefronts were decorated brightly, beckoning shoppers with lights and displays. It looked like a scene from a movie, the grey skies and falling snow, colored lights, and people bustling.

Lewis Jewelers was the destination. She meant to buy a new pair of earrings for herself, pearls, possibly. The store had a superb reputation for quality, and had been there for decades.

She browsed the men's section on her way by. Tie tack? Cuff-links? No, those were something a wife might buy. She'd never seen him wear any jewelry. She paused before a display of pens. A fountain pen? Perhaps…that seemed like classy gift and would even be useful. A gold and green one caught her eye. He wore green often…but perhaps black? She beckoned the salesman over.

* * *

The annual university Madrigal Dinner was a wildly popular event, traditionally held during the week after finals. It was a collaborative effort between the art, music, theater, and food services departments at the campus, with each providing decorations, food, staff, and actors, held the the Old Student Union Ballroom. A cast of upperclassmen played the roles of the King, Queen, Jester, and various Lords and Ladies of the Hall, dressed in Medieval to Renaissance costumes. They paraded in, singing, as everyone rose, then welcomed the guests to the Hall in a flowery speech.

Christine was enchanted at the finery, happily slipping into the spirit of things. Long banquet tables lined the floor, decorated with candles, greenery, and sugar-crusted fruits. Students dressed as servants swarmed the room, bearing trays of stollen and tiny glasses of mead, as the Court players wandered the room, greeting the guests and staying in character.

Erik watched Christine with his half-smile, her cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling with delight. It was easy to pretend that one had slipped several hundred years into the past, the sounds of Shakespearean English falling from trained lips, with various lutes, flutes, a tambour, lap harp, pipes, and horns providing the accompaniment.

"What is that funny-looking guitar thing he's playing?" she whispered. "I don't recognize it."

Erik draped an arm across the back of her chair and leaned close to her ear, sending a pleasant shiver down her spine at the warmth of his arm and that rich voice, naming and describing the various instruments from the university's collection. The scents that she associated with him—a spicy aftershave, varnish, paper and ink—were tantalizingly close and she inhaled as subtly as possible. _Wonder what he'd do if I told him how good he smells…_

Up at the front of the room, the players had collected twelve of the guests and were beginning to sing _The Twelve Days of Christmas_ , having each guest enact the lyrics described. Men in suits and women in formal dresses mimed flapping geese, milkmaids milking, and lords a-leaping, no doubt aided by the mead, finishing to applause and laughter.

The boar's head was brought in under a fanfare of trumpets, paraded about the room to much cheering, then the food service staff brought in their covered dishes. Prime rib, golden potatoes, green beans and tiny carrots, baskets of rolls and butter were placed before them, and glasses refilled. The meal was excellent, and she was glad to see Erik actually eating.

While they ate the players alternated entertaining their guests, regaling them with tales, poetry, and music. The jester gamboled about, and one of the troubadours sang to a lady in the audience, who turned out to be one of the departmental music teachers, Erik told her with amusement. A pair of acrobats, borrowed from phys ed, juggled and tumbled, and another pair of students dressed as a dancing bear and its trainer, did tricks.

Beside her Erik stiffened and muttered something under his breath. Christine glanced over, then followed his line of sight. The jester, carrying a large stick with a sprig of mistletoe tied to a string from it, was capering about, stopping at various couples to dangle the small bouquet of greenery over their heads, enticing them to kiss. A moment later he stopped in front of their table, nodded and bowed, turning toward them expectantly.

The sprig bobbed over their heads, the surrounding guests facing them with delighted smiles. Christine looked helplessly at Erik and he shrugged ever so slightly and leaned closer. "May I? Do you mind?" he murmured.

She could barely hear him over the thunder of her pulse, but managed a casual smile. "Can't disappoint the crowd, can we?"

"I suppose not." She turned her face to his and Erik bent his head and lifted her hand, his breath warm on her palm before he turned her hand and brushed his lips against her fingers, as light as a brush of a butterfly's wing, dark eyes locked on her face, to the laughter and applause around them. Blushing, Christine squeezed his hand back and ducked her head, glancing up at him out of the corner of her eye. Erik had shut his eyes, then seemed to forcibly relax before he gave her a mocking smile.

"A good performance, don't you think?"

Performance? She could still feel the brush of those cool dry lips against her tingling skin, as if they had brushed against her own. A light kiss...and she'd wanted to grasp the lapels of his suit and pull him closer, inviting those lips to hers, warming them. She blinked back the sting of tears. "Yes, I think we fooled them."

Erik gave her sharp look and nodded, picking up his fork and returning to his dinner. Christine reached for her glass of ice water with a shaking hand and took a long sip.

All too soon the evening was over. The players passed the Wassail bowl, then sang _We Wish You a Merry Christine_ and _Silent Night_ as the finale, and bowed. The lights came up, destroying the illusion, but for Christine, the magic had evaporated as quickly as it had begun.

Erik walked silently beside her out to the parking garage, his mood dark. He had been a fool to kiss her hand...perhaps just on her cheek would have been better. It would have satisfied the spirit of the merriment and not upset her so. She hadn't even been able to look at him afterwards, but what woman would have wanted him that close? He forced a smile. "Shall we?" Christine nodded and he started the car.

Back at her apartment, Erik walked her up to the door. Christine glanced at him cautiously—would he want to come in? She still had nut bread and fudge left from an earlier fit of baking, and could offer him a cup of something hot before he left. Maybe she'd get some sense of why he'd withdrawn so much.

But Erik simply caught her gloved hands in his own, squeezing them briefly. "I'll see you Christmas Eve," he said quietly and turned to go.

"Erik?"

He paused and looked up, squinting slightly in the harsh glare of the porch lights. She bit her lip. "Yes...see you soon." He nodded, hesitating a moment, then walked away.

* * *

On the third weekend of December, Christine had packed a bag and joined the Girys for the annual _Nutcracker_ weekend. Someone, perhaps Brian, had stapled multi-colored twinkling lights around the front window of Meg's small apartment. Her friend greeted her at the door with an exuberant hug, wearing a bright red Santa hat. The two spent a few hours hours catching up, then Meg dashed off to the Performing Arts Center. Friday night was the ballet, and Saturday the Choral Society sing-along, with members of various dance ensembles adding to the show. Meg was exhausted from the endless rounds of performance, practice, and social events, lamenting that there was so little time to see Christine. They managed two meals at the Giry home, a morning brunch on Saturday, and Sunday lunch, after attending the Advent church Lessons and Carols service.

The church was decked in purple, as befitting the season. Standing for the songs, Christine could almost hear Erik's smooth voice in her inner ear, and found herself wishing he was with them. Perhaps she really would invite him to Midnight Mass, just to get to hear him sing again. The little university church would be decorated for Christmas by then, candles glowing golden, the sweet-sharp smell of greenery draped along the walls and altar giving the building an ancient air. She'd planned to spend the day with him; perhaps he wouldn't fuss too much and bury his cynical mien.

If he still wanted her to spend the holidays, that is. She'd not heard from him at all, though she'd texted a brief note of thanks and enjoyment for the Madrigal Dinner. Until she heard anything differently, she'd just assume their Christmas plans were still on.

* * *

On the 23rd of December, Christine made her way through the snowdrifts and icy streets to Dr. Valerius's house. The day before she'd met the elderly lady and taken her shopping. Dr. Valerius, or Martha as she now insisted Christine call her, had a lengthy shopping list, enough to feed a platoon, it seems.

"Those teen-aged grandsons of mine can put away the food," she smiled fondly, and so Christine had helped her store away sacks of potatoes and onions, cans of vegetables, and tucked a turkey, chickens, a ham, pork, and roasts into the old-fashioned chest freezer in the basement. "They'll be here for a week," she informed Christine, "and for once, I intend to have most of the shopping done before they arrive."

That Wednesday the little house seemed to be overflowing with good smells. Christine had arrived early and found her friend already up and bustling about. Dr. Valerius offered her a mug of coffee, and then they got down to business. Working together, the two women made an assortment of pies and cookies, cinnamon rolls, nut bread, and cakes. Christine had confessed to not having any idea how to properly make pie crust from scratch, and Martha had been pleased to show her.

"The secret is in not over working the dough, or it will get tough," she explained. "Be sure to keep a bowl of cool water nearby for your hands." Deftly she mixed shortening, flour, and a teaspoon of ice water at a time into a ball of dough, chilled it, then quickly rolled it out, draping the pastry over her rolling pin before sliding it into the glass pie dish. "Easy as pie," she winked, and Christine laughed.

Mid-day they stopped for lunch, keeping it simple with mugs of soup, crackers, and cheese.

"I appreciate your help so much, my dear," the elderly lady had said. "I know this seems like an enormous undertaking, but it is the one time of the year all of my family is together. Oh, I go see them during the summer, but it isn't the same. And I know it won't happen after I'm gone." Pensively she stared out the window, lost in thought. Christine leaned forward and squeezed the frail hand and she gave the younger woman a faltering smile. "I'm sorry, my dear, I don't mean to be morbid." Changing the subject, she nodded at Christine. "How are you doing, young lady? You have been awfully reticent about yourself lately."

Christine forced a smile. "There's not much to tell, really. Classes are going well, I like my job."

"What about your young man? Raoul, I think his name is?" Martha asked shrewdly.

Christine shook her head. "I don't know…that's a tough one." She sighed, thinking back over the events of the last month. "He invited me to his house over Thanksgiving, and what a mess that was. It was obvious the family is a…well, something I don't want or need to get involved in. There's a family business with problems. His mother clearly doesn't think I'm good enough for her son. She's been that way with his brother, too, and he's now in his 40's and still unmarried. There's a sister who ran off but they don't speak of her, and another who's a real piece of work. Lots of money, but just…not for me, I guess." She fell silent, then looked up. "And to make it even more of a mess, he kinda sorta asked me to marry him."

Dr. Valerius's eyebrows went up. "To marry you? Either he did or he didn't, child. That's not the sort of thing a man can do halfway."

Christine choked back a laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob. "That's just it. I don't know how serious he was. I know he likes me a lot, but we've never done more than just kiss. I certainly didn't think we were anywhere near that stage yet."

"Do you love him?" Martha Valerius asked simply, and Christine rose from her chair, pacing.

"I don't know. I think…no? Not in that way? I mean, I liked it when he kissed me," she blushed, "but when he's away I don't think about it at all. Or even him, most of the time. I haven't even heard from him since then, and we were friends, good friends. I like him a lot; I care about him and I miss him. I want him to be happy. But I can't see myself spending the rest of my life with him."

Martha pushed a plate of cookies over toward Christine and refilled her tea. "What is he like?"

"Raoul?" She tugged on a loose curl, twisting it around her finger while she thought. "He's kind. Thoughtful. The type of man who brings you flowers without thinking about it. Tall, good looking, athletic. Opens doors. Takes you to dinner. Funny. He's sweet, really." She took a long sip from her mug. "He has a guaranteed job in the family business, but he'd also be stuck with that family business, no real leeway or independence. His family is a mess. And as I've said, his mother doesn't like me. I'm 'just a schoolteacher'," she said bitterly.

"Hardly a nice thing to say," Dr. Valerius observed, blowing on her tea.

Christine sat back in her chair, watching the snow fall outside. "I do like him a lot," she said softly, "but I've realized that we're not a bit alike. He likes sports, I like the arts. He'd go to concerts or the ballet with me, if I asked, but he wouldn't enjoy them, wouldn't be happy. And I don't think I'd be a good corporate wife." She turned a pinwheel cookie idly in her hands before taking a bite. "Teaching…it has a way of keeping you grounded in reality, you know? I don't think I could play those games."

"Yes, I know," the older woman said gently. "Is there anyone else in your life?" Her eyes were appraising, and Christine blushed.

"Yes," she admitted. "There is someone. And sometimes I think I'm falling for him...but it's hard to tell what he thinks. He's always so…so formal. And private. I don't know. But…" she blushed. "He's the one I see in my dreams, the one I think about all the time, like, what would he say, or what would he do, or how he'd like this thing or that song. He's the one I want to spend time with, to talk to. So…I guess…yes?" She buried her face in her hands. "Why does it have to be so complicated?"

Martha Valerius patted her on the shoulder. "It will all work out in the end, my dear. Enjoy your time dating and getting to know your young men. You have the rest of your life to be settled down."

* * *

He stood before the mirror, avoiding seeing his horrific reflection as much as possible while shaving. He mistrusted this oddly happy, strangely ebullient mood, as if the edges of his long-frozen soul were beginning to thaw. Hope was a fickle mistress, with a bitter sense of humor. This Erik had long since learned. It was best not to read too much into anything, and to proceed with caution.

At least the leg was aching less, and she was coming over to spend an evening and possibly the next day. Carefully Erik dried his face and prepared the adhesive for the prosthetic. It was one of the older prosthetics, but the light would be dim and it should be unnoticeable he would wear it one more time and then discard it.

He placed her present, carefully wrapped, on the top shelf of the hallway closet. He hoped she'd like his gift; truthfully he didn't know her well enough to know what to get. The things he wanted to offer—jewelry, for example—were not appropriate. Yet. How he hoped there might be a "yet," but they'd parted last week on an odd note. Erik shook his head. Perhaps he'd just imagined it, and was making it more of an awkward situation than it really had been.

Christine arrived at his house around 1:30, rosy-cheeked from the cold, carrying only her purse and a box of treats. Erik took her coat, checking to be sure her gift hadn't wandered off. In the kitchen, Christine had set the box on his counter, and opened it, smiling. "Cocoa pinwheels, jam tarts, rum balls, all sorts of cookies, nut bread, and fruitcake. I brought a little of everything, since I wasn't sure what you'd like."

He stared at the array of treats. "Did you make all of this?"

"A friend and I did it yesterday. She has a bunch of family coming in, so I went over to help with the baking."

Erik nodded, frowning slightly. "Did you bring a bag?"

"It really does seem silly to spend the night when I live so close," she said hesitantly.

Erik shook his head, fighting a sense of disappointment. "The weather tonight is supposed to take a turn for the worst, and we'll be out late from your church service."

"It's in the car. I can get it later if needed," she evaded answering.

The interior of the house smelled wonderful and she changed the subject. "What's for dinner?"

"A tenderloin of beef, in a wine sauce. It's been in the slow cooker since this morning and should be ready here in another couple hours. In the meantime, we do need to get groceries for tomorrow. I've asked Dr. Khan to join us, if that is acceptable. His practice is of course closed and he has no family either."

"Of course," she echoed.

They pushed the cart together through Uptown Market. Erik had a very specific list for their dinner, including fingerling potatoes and green beans. She added a half-dozen bakery rolls and small cheesecake to the cart as he chose a bottle of wine.

"Cherries or strawberries for the topping?"

"Cherries, if that's ok," he replied and pulled out his handkerchief to carefully blot his forehead. Christine nodded and left to hunt for fruit.

Surely he wasn't coming down with something? The store was almost unbearably warm. Erik felt the faint sheen of perspiration begin to loosen the edges of the prosthetic and he grimaced. Perhaps they could complete this shopping expedition quickly and get out to the car before anything happened. She returned with two cans of sweet dark cherries and he glanced over at her. "Get what you want for breakfast. There's very little in the house."

Christine's blue eyes sparkled teasingly up at him. "When is there ever? I swear you live on music and tea. How about French toast tomorrow?"

"Fine," he said tightly, trying not to move his face. She gave him a puzzled glance, but walked off, collecting eggs, milk, challah bread, bacon, and various spices. Oh hells, the edges were surely coming lose, curling slightly. Erik put a hand up, feeling the thin, loosened piece fluttering slightly, trying to press it down. Christine came back to the cart, dropping in a small container of nutmeg and raised puzzled eyes. He saw her sudden comprehension.

"You can go on out to the car," she said quietly. "I'll pay for this."

"No," he said tightly. "It's fine, and my responsibility. But let's be quick about it." Something was terribly wrong with the prosthetic, and he kept a careful hand over it, hiding his face.

She put the items of the conveyor belt and he walked ahead, sliding his Visa card, then turning away, pretending to be engrossed in the community announcements board, keeping his face turned aside. Christine kept the checker engaged in holiday banter, as the employee stacked the bags in her cart.

Neither saw the icy patch near the doors. Christine's feet slipped and she grabbed at the cart, managing to stay upright. Erik was not so lucky, his hands flying out as he staggered, wrenching the bad knee, and feeling the prosthetic split, the edges dangling obscenely in the glaring light of the storefront, revealing the garish scars beneath. The cold struck his exposed nasal cavity abruptly and his eyes watered.

"Here, let me help…oh my _god_." The stranger's hands jerked back with a startled gasp. Beside the woman a little girl cried out, frightened at the horrible visage before her, and past them, on the sidewalk, two teenagers pointed and began to whisper, giggling nervously.

"Sorry," he grated out and spun around, walking stiffly away, moving quickly toward the car and resolutely ignoring the staring faces behind them, one hand pressed to his face. They unpacked the cart in silence, and he slammed the trunk hard enough to rock the black car.

The drive home was silent. She glanced at him once, seeing the white knuckles that gripped the steering wheel. His mouth was set in a grim line and he refused to look at her. The edges of the torn silicon fluttered slightly revealing angry red scars beneath, and she turned to gaze out the window.

Erik disappeared down the hallway as soon as the grocery bags were brought in. A few minutes later she heard him in the darkened living room at the piano, crashing chords and dissonant tones echoing his frustration. The angry notes swelled and thundered around her as she put away the last of the groceries, an ocean of rage and pain in the sound.

Christine crossed the room and stood quietly behind him; fury was present in every line of his rigid body. He'd replaced the torn prosthetic with the white mask. Erik did not acknowledge her presence, but slowly the anger drained away and the music muted into something despairing, then ceased. "I apologize," he said after a moment, not looking at her. "You shouldn't have had to deal with any of that. My...temper gets the better of me, sometimes."

"It's fine," she said quietly. "I won't pretend to understand what it's like for you, but I'm sorry." Her hands settled on his shoulders, squeezing reassuringly, and Erik flinched. Beneath her palms his back was rigid with tension, the bones jutting sharply under the thin fabric of his shirt. "Hey, it's me, remember? It's okay," she said, and he nodded tightly, taking in a deep breath.

Christine reached around him, lowering the keyboard cover, and pressed gently downwards on his shoulders, until he leaned his head onto his arms. He was thin; so terribly thin, his muscles like iron bars under her hands. She dug her fingers into the knotted muscles, pressing, rhythmically stroking. Erik was silent, his eyes shut, his good cheek pressed against his forearm. Tenderness and compassion were rarities in the purgatory that had been his life, and her hands on his back felt good.

 _When had anyone last cared for him_ , she wondered, trying to avoid the knobby bones of vertebrae. She worked her fingers along the tense column of his neck and scalp, carefully avoiding the edges of his mask, then stroked the back of his hair a minute. It was soft, a raven's feathers against her fingers.

After a few minutes Erik caught her left hand and brought it around, clasping her palm. "Christine...thank you…for everything."

"Of course," she said lightly. "What are friends for?"

He gave her a rueful half-smile. "I wouldn't know, but I do appreciate it." He stretched, elongating his spine, shoulder joints popping, and rolled his neck carefully. "I'm sorry. Shall we get on with dinner?"

* * *

St. Vincent's Episcopal was situated near the campus, a rustic-looking traditional church surrounded by a snow-covered expanse of fields and a split-rail fence. They parked to the side and entered, Erik pausing on the threshold in surprise.

Christine tucked her arm into his and grinned up at him. "Not quite what you were expecting?"

"No," he admitted. The soaring roof was supported by rough pine logs, draped and decorated with fir garland. The sharp smell of the greenery permeated the air, and the interior held a soft golden glow from rows of candles in sconces, along the windowsills, in iron candelabra, and at the altar. In the choir loft above them, strings and brass were warming up in preparation for the musical offertory.

"They invite students to play at Christmas and Easter," she informed him, as Erik twisted around and looked with interest at the black-suited musicians.

"I know," he murmured. "Just wondering if I knew anyone up there."

"Christine?"

Erik stiffened but turned and managed a polite smile as Martha Valerius walked carefully toward them. Christine was sharply aware of the speculative and assessing look from her friend, but gave the elderly lady a hug and turned to him. "Erik, this is..."

"Martha Valerius." He extended a hand and she took it. "It's good to see you."

"And you as well, Erik. I haven't seen you since Stephen's funeral. How are you doing?"

"Well, thank you, and yourself?"

She gave him a wry smile. "The perils of old age are catching up to me."

"That is surely not the case," he said gallantly and she patted his arm, smiling over at Christine.

"I'm glad to see you here, my dear. Isn't the church lovely?"

"Yes, it is. I love the greenery! Did your family make it in?"

"Yes, thank you. The house is already a chaotic mess, but I do love it. Enjoy the service."

"I'm will, and Merry Christmas!"

"You too, dear." Martha Valerius walked over to greet others.

"I forgot you knew her," she said as they slid into a pew. "She is such a sweetheart."

He nodded. "She is. She and her husband were kind to me when I was a new instructor at the university. But how do you know her?"

"Task Rabbit," she whispered back.

"Ah." He could only wonder at how any discussion of his person had arisen, and what all the old lady might have mentioned. Surely nothing much? Around them people settled into seats and the organist began playing softly. He would have to ask later. Silence fell across the church as the services began.

Long familiar with the order of service, Christine did not use the program, repeating the words and prayers automatically, and Erik kept silent throughout it. _What utter nonsense_ , his mind sneered, _what are you doing here, nonbeliever?_ but he said nothing. Beside him Christine's face was peaceful, her soft, clear voice repeating the responses from the lay reader. A pity her practical parents had dissuaded her from a career in music he mused. With a little training and practice she'd be quite good.

The sweet notes from the cello and violins rose along with the choir, beginning the Latin version, _Adeste Fidelis._ Christine glanced up at him with a smile and reluctantly he sang, modulating his incredible voice to blend in with the others, but still vibrant, rich, the perfect intonation and pitch making people around them notice. He was uncomfortable with the attention, she could tell, and put her hand over his where it rested against the back of the pew in front of them, and squeezed gently. Erik glanced at her in acknowledgement, inclining his head slightly. Nonsense, yes, but he would accept and enjoy the evening for what it was; a chance to be with her and sing together.

* * *

The doorbell chimed throughout the house and Erik awoke abruptly, his heart slamming into fight-or-flight mode before he remembered. Christine was coming over to join him for breakfast before heading out on a trip with her friends.

The night before he'd offered the use of the guest room once again, as they returned from the Midnight Mass, but Christine had gently refused. She'd needed to go back to her flat and finish the last of her ski trip packing and arrangements. She'd apologized profusely and Erik had pushed away a sense of disappointment, resigned. Back at the house she'd hugged him goodbye, but her mind was clearly preoccupied. Still, she'd promised to have breakfast with him, and now here she was. He rolled out of bed.

The aroma of bacon drifted up the stairs as he hastily showered and dressed. It was odd to think of someone cooking in his house, his kitchen. He'd left her to begin preparations, apologizing again for having overslept.

Christine turned on the radio and was singing along with the inevitable Christmas carols. She'd found a griddle pan under the flat top range in the center island and began pulling items out of the refrigerator, smiling to herself.

She'd not expected him to greet her at the door, hair tousled from sleep, wearing a bathrobe over a t-shirt and pajamas pants. Erik had donned some sort of soft cotton cloth mask to answer the door, and she hadn't been able to resist teasing him about sleeping in.

"I don't sleep well," he'd replied, raking his hair back, and it had been all she could do not to throw herself at him. He'd looked so much more approachable, long and lean and very appealing. Erik had poured a glass of orange juice for them both then left her in the kitchen and headed back down the hall to his room. Resolutely Christine had turned her mind away from the thought of him in the shower and began laying strips of raw bacon on the griddle.

Twenty minutes later he was back, dark hair still damp from the shower, wearing a crimson sweater in concession to the holiday. Erik looked good, she thought, and flashed him a smile. "We'll try this again. Good morning."

"'Morning." He filched a piece of bacon from the plate, neatly evading her mock-slap at his hand and began to fill the carafe from the coffee machine.

"I looked at that beast, but it looks more complicated than the space shuttle," she teased, and Erik raised his visible eyebrow.

"Khan says the same thing," he admitted, "but it's not that hard, really. Beans here….and water here….and program the grinding, the temp, the strength, and voilà."

"Oh, that's all. I dump grounds into the basket, pour water, and push a button," she grinned.

"Scofflaw. Just wait until you taste it. You'll see the difference."

Pleased at her banter, Erik retrieved her gift, feigning a casual air. "Merry Christmas, Christine."

She dropped the bacon tongs with a gasp of delight. "Erik! You didn't have to get me anything!"

"It's not much," he said, watching her carefully slip a finger under the edge of tape. "I wasn't sure what to get you."

She slid a long thin box from the gilt wrappings and opened it. On a bed of tissue lay a pair of gloves in a deep blue-dyed leather, soft as butter with a cashmere lining, and a matching cashmere scarf below. Christine pulled one glove on, her eyes closing in bliss. "It's so soft...it feels like kitten fur."

"Do they fit? Do you like them?" he asked, intently.

"Oh yes. To both. I love the color! I don't have anything nearly this nice. Thank you so much." Impulsively she leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Your gift is on the table in the dining room. Let me go get it."

"I will," he said, escaping. She'd kissed him. The edges of his cheek pulled painfully at the idiotic smile on his face and he grimaced.

A small box lay on the table where he normally sat. Erik picked it up and began to return to the kitchen, but Christine had followed him. "Open it!" she said impatiently, and he shook it lightly, just to vex her.

"Erik!"

He untied the bow, setting it and the paper aside, and opened the box. Inside a black and gold Waterman fountain pen, two nibs, narrow and medium, and two bottles of ink, black and crimson were tucked into a satin-lined box. He detached the pen and removed the cap, admiring the etched swirls on the barrel.

"It's the kind with a rubber bladder, so you can pump up a supply of ink. The salesman said they were more traditional and leaked less than the cartridge kind," Christine said anxiously. "Do you like it?"

He regarded her warmly. "I cannot tell you how long it's been since anyone bought me a gift. It is perfect and I shall treasure it always."

"And use it?"

"Absolutely. A work of art is meant to be used, not set aside and kept for later."

Back in the kitchen, Erik poured two mugs of coffee, adding cream and sugar to hers. Christine took a long sip. "Wonderful."

"Told you." He raised the mug in a toast.

Reluctantly she set the mug aside. "I'd best get started on the French toast." Christine pulled the bowl toward her, broke three eggs into it and began whisking them. "When will Dr. Khan be here?"

Erik glanced at the clock. "Any minute. And call him Nadir. He likes you. He won't touch the bacon, but he'll love the French toast; the man has a terrible sweet tooth."

"Then I'll make him an extra slice." She added milk, sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, and nutmeg to the bowl, stirring it around. "Here, put the syrup into the microwave. How do you know he likes me?"

"He said so. 'I approve of her,'" Erik said, mimicking the Iranian doctor's dry intonation, and Christine laughed. Erik leaned against the sink, folding his arms. "When do you leave for your trip?"

"No later than noon. I'll get in late, but that's ok."

"You should leave earlier," he chided.

She gave him a dazzling smile and set the bowl aside. "I wanted to have breakfast with you."

He felt that burgeoning warmth again and hastily tamped it down. "Warm syrup?"

"Trust me, it's wonderful on pancakes and things. It will boil over pretty fast, though, so keep an eye on it."

"When do you return?"

"New Year's. I'm not the best skier," she admitted, dropping a pat of butter on the hot griddle, swirling it around and watching it sizzle. "But I do enjoy it. It's good exercise and the trees and snow are so pretty on the mountains." Christine dipped the first thick slice of bread into the eggy mixture and poked it under the surface. "I stay on the greens and blues, none of that black-diamond-level stuff for me. I hate moguls and going that fast." She lifted the slice and placed it carefully in the melted, bubbling butter. "They're all better skiers than I am. We were just too poor when I was a kid to go often enough."

"Will your boyfriend be joining you on the trip?" _Boyfriend._ How juvenile.

Christine frowned down at the griddle, testing the edge of the batter-drenched slice. "No, this is just some of my old school friends. I haven't seen him since the break began," she went on sadly. "Did I tell you he'd asked me to marry him?"

To marry him? The world went white and buzzing for a moment, and he felt a sour metallic tang rise up in his throat. "No," he said slowly, "you didn't mention that. I..."

The doorbell chimed and he whirled on one foot, snapping off the sentence mid way. Thank god for interruptions before he'd said something unforgivable. He stalked to the living room and slid back the bolts.

"Erik!" Khan greeted him with a smile. "Merry Christmas, my friend." He proffered a bottle wrapped with a red bow. "Cheers. It's your favorite." He stepped in, shrugging off his long coat and tossing it over the back of a chair, noting the wrappings lying on the dining table. "Have I missed breakfast and the festivities?"

"No." Erik set the bottle on the sideboard and gathered the papers. "Make yourself at home, Nadir; there's coffee in the kitchen."

Khan frowned slightly at the man's grim expression. What was the matter? Well, he'd soon enough figure it out.

She looked up from the stove as Khan entered the room, wearing an oatmeal colored sweater and brown wool trousers, smelling of expensive aftershave. "It is a pleasure to see you again, Christine," he said, and leaned over to kiss her cheek. "You brighten this old man's morning."

"You're not old," Erik snapped, and Khan raised an eyebrow, aware of Christine's puzzled look. Something between them, then.

He opted for humor and pulled a sad face. "Old, alone, and unloved. No lovely lady fixing my breakfast, or pouring my coffee," he pretended to grouse, and Christine laughed.

"Help yourself. How do you like your French toast and eggs?"

"Done," he said firmly, and she laughed.

"Over easy or sunny-side up?"

"Over easy, and two, please. Much watch the cholesterol." He patted his chest and took the mug of coffee Erik held out. "Thank you."

He spent breakfast watching the two of them, drawing Christine out with questions about her upcoming ski trip and the friends she'd left behind at her school, the master's program, and her plans to return to teaching afterward. Erik he gave up on quickly. The man said little, eating mechanically, his face was set and stoic under the mask. Christine watched him, puzzled and hurt, when she thought he was not looking. Definitely trouble between these two. He'd do his best to pry it out of Erik after the girl departed.

* * *

"Leave the dishes," he'd said curtly, as Christine had tried to clear the table. Erik wasn't looking at her, again. "You'd best get on the road."

It was barely 10:00; leaving now would certainly help, but she'd have been fine regardless. Erik walked her downstairs to the garage, raising the door. She'd thought for a minute he was going to talk to her, perhaps tell her what was wrong. He'd actually said her name and when she'd looked up at him Erik had shaken his head, his face carefully blank. "Nothing. Drive safely."

She'd hoped for a kiss goodbye, had at the least wanted to hug him, but Erik had stepped away from the car, his back stiff and hands behind his back. She didn't dare approach him with that rigid posture and grim expression. Erik was gone, Dr. Martin back in his place.

She tried once more. "I enjoyed breakfast, and last night," Christine began, and he nodded.

"I'm glad," he said formally. "Enjoy your trip."

It was a dismissal. Christine backed the Honda carefully down the driveway, avoiding the doctor's red Porsche, resentful and fuming. The man was impossible. Just when she'd thought things were going someone smoother, that maybe he was beginning to act as if he was interested in her, he retreated back into this stupid, icy shell and refused to meet her eyes. Well, whatever. She didn't have time to deal with whatever problem it was now. There would be plenty of time on the road to figure out where they'd gone wrong.

* * *

Long after Khan departed, Erik poured a drink and leaned back in the Eames chair, trying not to listen as the silence settled in echoes around the house.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed it, despite the length! Next up, New Year's Eve. :)

Thank you for reading, and please please leave a comment. They make the writing and editing worthwhile!  
~R


	21. Chapter 21 New Year's Eve and a Warning

**A/N—** Sorry about the frustration with the last chapter. ;) These two? Communicate? Are you kidding me? What can you do when Erik is convinced he is unlovable and Christine is reluctant to push anything?

 **Peanutpup** and **HC247** , welcome to the story!  
 **Stormaurora** —I think you're correct, and I'll most likely rework that one of these days.  
 **Mominator** —Done and done, thank you for your eagle eyes, as always!  
 **Guest** —This story is a WIP, a work-in-progress. Chapters come out 2-3 times a month. :)

Someone will get to be the **400th reviewer** with this chapter! Whoot, I'm excited! I didn't think I'd ever have anything with that many comments!

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chp 21 New Year's Eve and a Warning

2017, 2018

.

The university's annual holiday bash was well underway. Always held off-campus at The Landing, no one knew which group within the College of Fine Arts had really begun the tradition, but it was the social affair of the winter for the Art, Media, Music, and Theater departments. Over the years university faculty from other departments began to be included. Everyone arrived bearing food, liquor, and their significant other.

Erik's tolerance for loud parties was low to begin with, but Jules Reyer had provoked him into attending. He'd been uncomfortable with the idea but driven out anyway. The Landing was located near the lake, about eight miles northeast of town, a weathered grey sprawling ranch-style building. He'd sat in the car for some minutes, watching couples strolling across the gravel lot into the building, before giving in to Reyer's pointed text messages.

Mercifully, no one noticed his arrival. Erik contributed a bottle of Scotch to the open bar and went to peruse the buffet. The food was the usual amalgam of cheese trays, crackers and dips, chicken wings, meatballs, salads, rolls, canapés, fruit, and desserts. A sports program blared from a flat screen TV in one room, a replay of some earlier event, and music and laughter spilled out from another room with flashing lights.

A smattering of people from the music department and school of architecture said hello as he wandered, glass in hand. He nodded at a few old acquaintances and shook the hand of the Dean, whose hearty "How are you, Erik?" seemed more forced than natural. The crowd ebbed and flowed, drinking and talking, women wearing sparkly holiday apparel and men in suits or garish Christmas sweaters carrying plates laden with food. A sizable pile of gaily wrapped gifts were clustered under the artificial tree, awaiting the inevitable Dirty Santa game. He stifled a shudder at the thought.

The faculty party was getting increasingly inebriated, and Erik, standing aside in the vast vaulted room, suddenly felt old and tired, and very much out of place. He took one last swallow of the liquor and set his half-finished glass on a tray, doubting very much if they'd notice his absence. Quietly he made his way through the noisy throng toward the back of the building, wondering where they'd taken his overcoat. Finding it, he slipped out the door.

Breath hung in the air, a white mist against the black sky and sparkling stars. It would be another cold night. For a moment he stood looking up at the heavens, then turned up his collar and opened the car door.

He'd not had enough to drink to have any influence on his thoughts or actions, but once again found himself taking the route that went by her apartment. Christine had not been home, due to her ski trip, but there was just the slightest chance she'd be back tonight.

She'd texted him a couple times during the past few days, the first a photo of a narrow trail framed by trees, and another of a vast snowy expanse, captioned "The view from the top of the lift." He never been skiing himself, never had the time, money, or inclination, but thought he understood what she saw in the still, white scene.

The second time was a photo. "The crazy ski crew!" it said, and he scanned the image avidly, looking for her face. And there she was, on the end of the group, arms around each other and each with a leg propped up on a ski, balancing in the snow. Her long brown curls were pulled back in a ponytail, under a white stocking cap. She was wearing a blue ski jacket, grinning at the camera. He saved and cropped the photo, the only image he had of her. Pathetic as it was, he could pretend the smile was for him.

There was a light on in the window of her condo. Swiftly Erik swung the Mercedes through the gates, entering the code she'd given him some time back. Her Honda sat under the awning in its assigned space, with no other cars around. He paused, looking up at her flat. The porch light was off, but the living room and bedroom lights glowed dimly through the curtains. She was home and still awake. Perhaps he would go up for just a minute and wish her a happy new year.

Erik tucked the Mercedes into the spot beside her car and paused long enough to loosen his heavy silk tie, then climbed the snow-covered stairs carefully and knocked. There was a brief pause, and then she stood shivering in the frosty air.

"Erik?"

"I was driving home and saw your light." It sounded lame even to him. "I thought I might wish you a happy New Year."

Christine opened the door wider. "Come in, you'll freeze out there."

She was wearing a pale blue knit t-shirt with flannel sleep pants, blue with fluffy white lambs, and sheepskin slippers. Erik froze. "I'm so sorry-were you about to go to bed?"

She shook her head and it was then he noticed the TV, volume turned down, showing the New Year's Night festivities in the capital city. "No, I was just watching." She stepped into her bedroom and returned a moment later, belting a soft fleece robe. She'd had little on beneath her nightclothes, he realized with a suddenly dry mouth.

"When did you get back?" he managed. Through the open door he could see her bed, two bags on the floor beside it.

"A couple hours ago. Haven't even unpacked yet. Would you like some cocoa?" Christine held up her mug. "You're welcome to stay and watch the ball drop."

"Please. I'd appreciate that." Erik shrugged out of his heavy overcoat and hung it in the entryway and followed her into the kitchen.

She poured steaming milk from a pan on the stove into a mug, added cocoa powder, and stirred. Erik hitched his bad leg up on a stool, watching, then she handed him the mug and silently pushed a tray over bearing vanilla and caramel syrups, cinnamon and nutmeg, a can of whipped cream, and tiny bottles of peppermint schnapps and amaretto. She poured a finger of amaretto into her own mug and raised it. "Cheers."

Erik frowned. Christine was not much of a drinker. He added a dollop of amaretto to his own cup, thinking. She leaned against the counter, arms folded, sipping from her steaming mug. Her eyes were tired and her long hair hung loose for once, curling down her back. He wondered how it would feel against his fingers.

"How was your trip?"

She shrugged. "The trip itself was great. It was good to see old friends and catch up on the news. Breckenridge is beautiful, the weather was perfect, the food was good, I had my own room, nobody got hurt."

"Then what?" She blinked at him and he smiled wryly. "I know you well enough by now. What's wrong?" He gestured at the alcohol on the tray and she blushed.

"I'm having one of those 'rethink your life choices' moments tonight. New Year's and all, you know?"

"Ah. Yes, I do know," he said ruefully. "I left the faculty party early tonight, myself, as you can see."

"Let's go sit." He followed her into the living room area and selected the high end chair he'd used on his last visit. Christine curled up on the couch, tucking her feet under a festive throw. Erik stretched his long legs out, crossing them, and Christine smiled inadvertently, tears prickling her eyes.

"So tell Dr. Erik all about it."

Christine tangled her fingers through the long fringe of the woolly throw and sighed. "It's silly, now that I'm back here."

Erik raised his good eyebrow. "But it upset you at the time." He took another sip of cocoa, patiently waiting.

"I don't think I'd realized—and Ann never mentioned it—that I'd be the only single person there this time. Everyone else on the trip was married or with someone. It was just occasionally awkward —table numbers off, everyone together at night—that's all."

She took another drink. "I miss them a lot, you know. We were a really tight faculty. They kind of took care of me for a while there, after my parents died. Sometimes I just feel so isolated back here."

He was silent a long minute, debating with himself. "I thought your young man might go with you, since he had asked you to marry him." There, it was out, the words lying between them.

"Y-yes…" Her eyes were staring unseeing at the television, and then she shook her head slightly. "But I've told him no."

Stunned, Erik stared at her. She had said no? "Why, if I may ask? He seems perfect." His voice was a little bitter, but she was too preoccupied to hear it in his tone.

Christine ran her hand through her loose curls. "Raoul _is_ perfect…but not for me. His family is so uptight…everything has to be just so. And I'm not. I'm 'just a schoolteacher.' His mom wants him to marry someone brilliant with a business degree or marketing or something that could 'benefit the family.' He wanted me to quit grad school and move back to Seattle, to become a corporate wife. I know he's lonely and he needs someone who's not part of that scene, but it's not me. I don't…love him enough in that way. I'd be bored and miserable. And I know I can't think only of myself…I have to think of him, too, but I think we'd be unhappy pretty quickly. He's a great guy and I enjoy being with him but we don't like the same things. It just…it wouldn't last."

Erik stared down into his drink, thoughts whirling and paralysis seizing his heart and lungs, nearly giddy with relief. She was not...

"Oh, look!" She gestured at the screen before he could say anything. The great glittering ball had begun to glow and twirl in preparation for its descent. The crowd on the television began chanting a countdown as the enormous orb dropped, ending with fireworks, whistles, bells, and sirens. The old year had passed; a new one had begun.

"Cheers!" Christine raised her mug toward him.

"Cheers," he echoed, and drank the last of the cocoa. Reluctantly he rose. "You're tired, and I had best be heading home. Thank you for allowing me to join you."

They walked together to the front door. Christine looked up into his face, a long silent moment, then stepped forward and put her arms around him, holding him closely, an embrace that quite took his breath away. "Thanks for listening. Happy New Year, Erik," she said softly, raising her face, and gently touched her lips to his.

Erik froze, then his arms came hesitantly around her. She had kissed him. He searched her blue eyes for any sign of regret or disgust, but found only a shy hope. _Better to die a fool than a coward_. He pulled her closer, acutely aware of the press of her body against his lean form, and kissed her back.

"Happy New Year, Christine."

* * *

Christine rolled over on the bed, hugging herself and resisting the urge to giggle like mad. She'd kissed him.

Erik had been on her mind a lot during the ski trip. She'd wanted him there, thought about him waiting back at the lodge, maybe wearing an Irish fisherman's type sweater and wool trousers, his dark hair soft and messy. He wouldn't ski, no, not with that bad leg, but he'd have come with her, would have been sitting in that big comfy chair by the fire, a mug of coffee and a book in hand, his violin nearby. He'd meet her at the door and pull her into an embrace, his lips against her own, those callused musician's hands warm on her back, her neck, moving under her sweater, and then…

She'd returned from the trip determined to do something about the dreams and idle fantasies. Perhaps she'd invite him to dinner again, wear a new dress and bewitch him with her brilliant conversation and culinary skills. He'd be unable to resist and sweep her off her feet.

 _Yeah, right._

Of course it hadn't worked like that. Erik had shown up at her apartment. She'd been tired and depressed, wearing her sloppy pajamas, no makeup, and her hair down and curly. He'd looked like a Joseph Banks catalog model as usual, long and lean, crisp dark hair brushed back, that seductive voice doing terrible things to her imagination. The only thing she'd had to offer him was a mug of hot cocoa. _Real sophisticated, there, Christine,_ her mind had sneered.

But he'd listened to her awkward problems and sympathized, hadn't mentioned that she looked like a wreck. Instead his eyes had watched her with a wistful, lonely expression. She'd planned on just walking him to the door, but he'd looked tired and drawn himself, getting ready to go back home to that big empty house, and suddenly she couldn't stand it anymore.

She'd kissed him, and pulled back, embarrassed. Erik had stared at her, so still and stunned Christine had wanted the floor to simply open up and swallow her on the spot. But then his arms had tightened around her, tightened like a desperate, drowning man, and he'd pulled her close, tilting her chin up and brushing his lips against hers, so soft and tentative, as if it had been a very long time since he'd kissed anyone.

Maybe it had.

They'd held each other for a moment, bodies pressed tightly together. She'd sensed he'd wanted more, and she'd wanted to do something, say something profound, but then he'd pulled back gently and let go. _Happy New Year_ was all he said.

But he'd walked off like a man in a daze, a man that had turned and looked back up at her window. She'd waved at him, then fallen into bed, unable to sleep for the longest time.

She'd kissed him.

* * *

It was sheer chance he'd seen the couple walking together into the Little Theater that evening. He'd been on his way back from the gym but had to cross campus to where he'd left the car.

There was no mistaking them. Raoul caught a good look at her face as Christine turned, laughing at something the other man said. The tall thin man in the black coat, carrying a cane, could only be that Dr. Martin. So she was still seeing him. It was her business, he thought irritably, but why the secrecy? She certainly hadn't gone out of her way to mention that fact.

Raoul's eyes narrowed as the man put a hand on her back, escorting Christine into the building, watching until they disappeared into the crowd. There was an indie film tonight, he knew, something about a girl and a fishman during the Cold War. She'd mentioned going to see it in the theater last fall and he'd shaken his head, bemused. "It doesn't sound like my kind of thing," he'd said honestly, and she'd nodded. Apparently she'd found someone to go with anyway.

Raoul sat back, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. True, they'd never actually formally discussed their relationship, but he'd thought he'd made clear his interests. Despite her refusal last autumn, the Chagny men did not give up quite so easily.

Christine was the best thing to happen to him in some years. She was calm, kind, stable, smart, sweet, and funny. And cute, too. She was a fantastic kisser, and he'd be willing to bet she'd be good in bed. He'd never had complaints himself; they'd be good together. Phil had let his mother ruin his chances with more than one woman. Raoul was not about to walk down that same path.

He pulled out his phone and keyed in a text.

* * *

Classes weren't due to resume until next week, but the campus was hosting a winter basketball camp for high school kids and a workshop for teachers. He'd arranged to meet Christine for lunch on Wednesday and quickly gave up on finding a seat in the crowded Commons. They ended up carrying their trays across the hall into one of the student lounges, under the disapproving eyes of a passing Provost. Christine eased her backpack to the floor and perched on the edge of a sagging sofa, awkwardly balancing the tray on her knees, and unwrapped her chicken sandwich.

"Were we this clueless as teenagers?" he grinned, poking a straw through the lid of his drink. The high school students were excitedly chattering and wandering about the building in groups.

Christine shook her head, amused. "I know I wasn't. I was terrified of being on a campus for the first time when we visited." She took a bite and tapped the printout on his tray. "Been to drop and add already?"

"Switched sections. I am not taking anything from Kelly ever again; the man's a horrible instructor. Last semester and I'm done, though, thank god, then it's back to the grindstone." He regarded his burger with a sigh. "I should probably begin looking for an apartment."

"You won't live at the ranch?"

"No, too far of a drive. The family has a block of flats in one of the townhouses I can use, but they're kept for visitors, mostly. I don't know who all has a key, and a man needs his privacy." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Christine laughed.

"Yes, I can see that. What all are you taking?"

They discussed class schedules and their respective ski trips. Raoul let her get most of the sandwich down before bringing up the subject. "So, I saw you at the Little Theater movie night, the other night."

Beside him she stiffened, and he went on, keeping his voice gentle and compassionate. "I also saw who you were with." She started to speak and he held up one hand. "I know, it's not any of my business who you are seeing. You've made that abundantly clear." He couldn't quite keep a note of bitterness out of his tone. "But what do you know about this guy? I mean, really know? Has he told you about his background or anything?"

She took a sip of iced tea to organize her thoughts. "Yes, some of it. I'm sure not everything. Why?"

Raoul winced. "That's what I was afraid of. Back when we...back last fall I did a little Internet searching on him, and then...because of what I found...I asked our family lawyer to do a little more digging."

"You had no right," she said heatedly, and Raoul put his hand soothingly over hers. Christine snatched it away, eyes blazing.

"At the time, I didn't know you were seeing him. You never mentioned it," he said reasonably. "All I knew is that the woman I wanted to marry was working with a man I knew nothing about." She took an outraged breath and he sighed. "OK, I was wrong about that, but I still think you should know." Raoul took another bite of his burger and waited, a technique he'd learned from watching his father and brother broker deals. _Shut up and let the other person sweat. Don't do all the talking._

Christine sat there, thoughts whirling, turning over his words. What _did_ she know about Erik? Only what he'd told her. She could Google him herself when she got home….should, in fact, only it felt like such an invasion of privacy, and Erik was such a very private man, only just now beginning to open up to her. What if there was something in his past that only a lawyer could find?

Grudgingly, she nodded. "What."

Raoul smiled inwardly. Bingo. What did they say about women and curiosity? Pandora something. Keeping his voice quiet and sympathetic, he went on. "You know he used to work here, at the university? He was a full professor in the music department. Really good, from what I could tell. He got married to some famous singer and apparently it was a mess. They didn't get along well. There was a charge of domestic assault against him. Charges dropped later, but it was there."

Beside him Christine had gone utterly still, her blue eyes locked on him. "Go on." She felt frozen.

"And there was a plane crash. You knew about that, right? It really messed him up. There was an NTSB inquiry afterwards. He was accused of deliberately trying to kill her and him both. He was in and out of alcohol rehab, and at one point he assaulted a reporter. Assault and battery charge. There was some sort of community service deal on that, a plea bargain. But the worst is that his wife, the singer...she turned up dead later. They found her in a car. There was some thought he might have...Christine, I'm sorry. I'm surprised you didn't know any of this."

Her face had gone utterly white and she took another sip of her drink mechanically.

Raoul's eyes were genuinely upset. "Christine, I'm sorry. I know you like the guy. But he possibly killed his wife and has a conviction for assault. He's not stable. There's a reason they won't let him teach here anymore. You can't see him again."

* * *

She logged on to the Internet, typing in search terms. The same articles from the crash came up, the ones she'd seen earlier and only skimmed. Now Christine took the time to continue reading. It was all there, as Raoul had said, the NTSB investigation, testimony from a man named Joseph Buquet about how Erik had threatened to kill Carla, Buquet's testimony of threats made against him, and a trial and conviction for assault against a reporter. Oh dear god.

Further search turned up more articles on Carla's death. A car found in a parking garage, drugs and alcohol in her system. How had she not seen these before? Because she hadn't been looking for them, only about the plane crash.

She sat back, sickened, her thoughts whirling, feeling the growing metallic clammy sense of nausea. Her Erik, the gentle musician she knew, the man who also had a sharp and biting temper, had possibly killed someone and assaulted another. Christine buried her head in her hands, rocking back and forth.

After a few minutes she stood, gathering her coat. There was only one person who could answer her questions, and even though it might be a foolish, fatal mistake, she would ask him.

* * *

She drove to his house blindly, not seeing or registering the traffic or icy roads and arrived unannounced, knocking sharply on the door.

Surprised at an interruption to his peaceful afternoon, Erik snatched the mask and irritably snapped on the porch camera, but the snarl died from his lips seeing Christine. She looked cold, clutching the panels of her open coat around her body, visibly upset. Frowning, he opened the door. She looked up at him. "Erik, we need to talk."

Those words were never a good sign. Silently he beckoned her in, shutting the door behind her and locking it.

Christine turned around, hearing the steady snick of the bolts sliding shut. Oh god, what had she done; maybe this was not a good idea, confronting him here in his home, the door locked and no one knowing where she was. _Raoul would guess, though_ , she thought miserably, and raised reddened eyes to him.

For his part, Erik could only wait, hands suddenly cold and pulse elevated. "My dear," he said softly, "What is wrong? I can see something has you upset." He reached for her hand but she subtly shifted, stepping back, and he felt a trickle of fear when she shook her head. "Let us get you warmed up," he murmured, turning away and walking into the kitchen. She had not removed her coat.

Erik filled the kettle and spooned tealeaves into a pot, then leaned against the sink, waiting. Whatever it was, he would give her time.

Christine slowly lowered her purse to the kitchen table, and twisted her hands tightly together, watching him, this man she had come to care for so deeply. "Erik…I need to know about the plane crash. And about...the trials." There, it was out, she'd said it.

He had not moved, though her words impacted him. His black eyes were opaque, emotionless, staring down at her, the white mask cold and impersonal. He had never looked more distant and unapproachable. A muscle twitched in his cheek and he turned away, staring across the snowy yard. She did not miss the tension in his shoulders. "Just what is it you wish to know?" His voice was cool.

Christine stepped forward. "I know there was a plane crash, and there was a trial. Someone accused you of doing it deliberately, to try to…to kill your wife. And that there was another trial, later, where you," she took a deep breath, the words choking her, "where you were convicted for assaulting a man. And there was a ..a ...domestic violence charge as well."

He turned. "And just who told you this?" When she raised her chin, lips compressed, he snorted. "That boy, probably. No matter. Yes. It's true, all of it. I assume you've read it all the sordid details online." The kettle whistled and he reached for it, pouring the scalding water over tealeaves. "Oh, take off that ridiculous coat and sit down."

With shaking hands, she loosened the shoulders and slipped the offending garment off, laying it across a chair but continuing to stand. "You never told me."

He dragged a hand tiredly through his dark hair. "I suppose it's because I didn't think it relevant. It was years ago."

"Relevant to you or me, Erik?" she said softly.

He folded his arms. "To me." In the silence that followed he brought down two mugs and filled them, setting one in front of her. "What would you have me say?"

"The truth."

"Then yes, I killed her." The emotionless words fell between them, brittle and cold.

"But I thought you loved her," Christine whispered, and he spun around.

"Loved her? I hated her! And she hated me!" His eyes blazed.

* * *

.

Well...not quite what Christine was expecting, I think. Next up, confession time.

Thank you for reading, and please review!  
~R


	22. Chapter 22 History

**A/N—**

 **Ghostwritten2** , you were the 400th Reviewer! I wish I had a prize for you!

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chp 22 History

2017, 2018

.

"But I thought you loved her," Christine whispered, and he spun around.

"Loved her? I hated her! And she hated me!" His eyes blazed. "The last time I ever saw her alive she was cursing me, reviling me."

Weakly she sank down in the nearest seat, stunned by the revelation, her mind whirling. Across from her Erik jerked the other chair from its space and sat, leaning over, raking both hands through his hair. His breathing had gone ragged, his shoulders tense. "I don't even know where to begin. It's such a sordid story."

She reached toward him, wanting to anchor them both, to touch his bony shoulder under the thin white shirt, but Erik flinched away. She swallowed and forced the words from between numb lips. "Maybe at the beginning? With the accident?"

"Oh, the plane crash was hardly the beginning."

"Then just tell me about it? What happened? With the accident, I mean," she asked hesitantly.

He sighed. "We'd fought that night…it was horrible; it always was with her. But she still insisted I fly her home. To avoid all the 'paparazzi.' What bunk. We were coming back from Cheyenne…I had a twin-engine Beechcraft Baron, sweet little plane," he smiled faintly. "The weather got worse and worse, a squall line of storms. I decided to turn back but she began insisting we keep on…no way to skirt the leading edge and we got caught in a hail shaft. The flight control surfaces were taking a pounding and the windshield was shattered all to hell. There wasn't a damn thing I could do. We lost the port engine a minute later and that was it."

He took another deep breath. "I'd flipped the radio to the emergency channel and called in our situation. They tried redirecting us to the nearest rural airport but the wind was crazy and with only one engine…we didn't have a chance. We were side-slipping all to hell and she was screaming and I was fighting her and the plane. I tried to set down in a field, but the storm…" He fell silent, absently rubbing his knee. "We caught another wind gust on the descent, hit hard, dragged a wing and cartwheeled. The EPIRB had fired up on the way down, but it took a couple hours for the weather to clear enough and for them to find us. She was in the back of the plane, only badly banged up, broken bones and cuts. We both survived…but…"

"Your face," she whispered.

He nodded tiredly. "Yes. Even with plastic surgery, there just wasn't much they could do. They rebuilt it partially with rib tissue, but there isn't enough bone or muscle left for grafts, and the reconstruction would have taken years and money I didn't have. I was lucky I didn't burn to death. They put me back together like Frankenstein's monster. So I took a medical leave of absence from the university, and eventually went on disability."

Her fingers curled tightly around his hand, and he squeezed them briefly then pulled away. "Oh Erik…I'm so sorry."

There was so much more he could never tell her.

Carla had used her semi-celebrity status a few days later to demand to be taken down to his room in the critical care unit, playing the devoted, concerned wife. She'd promptly had hysterics at the sight and extent of his injuries. The nurses, who had been anticipating a touching reunion, had flown back in, appalled at her screaming. She accused him of deliberately crashing the plane, of trying to kill her, and had shrieked curses at him. In a daze of drugs, pain, and anger, he'd ordered the nurses to remove the shallow bitch from his presence and they had, her ugly words, _monster, freak, hideous_ , still echoing in his ears. They'd never had a chance to reconcile; thirty-six hours later she was released and two days after had moved out of their shared house, clearing out their combined bank account in the process.

The betrayal on top of the guilt had been devastating. The hospital had suggested counseling, but with the investigation hanging over his head, Erik had refused, and had never told anyone about that night. Pacing the room he continued.

"The NTSB conducted an investigation. You must have seen that in your 'research.' They always do in any kind of an accident. The aircraft was fine, it had recently passed its safety inspection. The weather in Cheyenne was good, though we had that storm coming in. My license was up to date. The front just moved faster than expected, back building in the process. I'm not sure even now if we could have outrun it even if I'd turned around. And that should have been it."

"But it wasn't?"

"No. The dammed press wouldn't leave me alone. Every time I thought it would die down there was some other reporter at my door, all wanting to know about the accident and our marriage. Tabloids are horrible things, Christine. They don't care who they hurt as long as they get a story. It was worse after she died. Everyone wanted some dirt on me or the late, great Carla Giudicelli."

He looked up. "You mentioned the domestic assault charge. Christine, I swear to you that I never touched her. Hell, we barely inhabited the same house toward the end. She was," he gritted his teeth and continued, "she was unfaithful, and god only knows what she'd gotten herself into. She came home one night with marks on her throat and face, her arms, and maybe elsewhere for all I know. We fought about it—we were always fighting by that point, just yelling at each other, foul things, and she'd get angry and throw things, break things. But I swear I never hurt her. Whoever she was with that night did, and she blamed it on me to get even."

"But it went to court?"

He shook his head wearily. "No. After some particularly vile words, she demanded money, and I wouldn't give it to her. She went through money like water. She went down and filed a police report, but she dropped it a few days later. She'd do that, be absolutely horrible and then turn around and throw herself at me. It was like living with a demon. I never knew which Carla I'd come home to."

"I was drinking pretty heavily by that time. I had been for years. Tried to stop, but everything was just falling apart. My marriage, my job, the pain and the stress...finally the university had begun to notice the rumors and police reports." He looked away. "If I'd been sober I probably could have fought it better, but I wasn't."

"Her affairs were general knowledge by then, and the idea seemed to be that I'd driven her to it." He took a deep breath. "She was unfaithful, right from the beginning, though I didn't find that out until much later. You can't imagine, Christine. Everywhere I went I'd see some man smile and think, I wonder if he'd had her too."

"I saw the testimony from Ubaldo Piangi," she said quietly and he nodded, resuming his seat.

"Oh yes, that was one of her longer flings. Good-looking suave Italian tenor…I almost couldn't blame her."

"She'd been at rehearsal, they broke for lunch. She was seen leaving the building and getting into her car…and that was it. Of course my fingerprints were inside it, and hers, and on the thermos too, but no one else's-but we both drove the cars and the thermos was from the house, so they couldn't prove anything. To this day I don't know what happened."

He glanced at her. "What else, Christine? What else do you want to know?"

Christine wrapped her icy fingers around the mug. "How did she die?"

He stared stonily at the far wall. "An overdose, compounded by alcohol and the freezing weather. She took medication for her problems, a lot of it, I think. She never wanted to talk about it with me. We'd had another argument before she left that morning—she'd moved out after the accident but she was back and forth for months afterward. I wanted a divorce by then but she didn't, wouldn't give it to me without a fight. Anyway, she'd stormed out and didn't come home that night. I didn't report it, figured she was with another one of her flings. It was...the house was just so peaceful and quiet without her in it. But the theater called the next afternoon—she hadn't shown up for rehearsal. I said I had no clue where she was, and thought I'd wait it out. When none of us had heard from her the next day after that I filed a missing persons report. But you know how it is with adults—they assume the person is off somewhere and doesn't want to come home. They found her a few days later, in her car in the airport parking garage."

He shifted on the seat and she waited in silence. "They did an autopsy...she had drugs in her system, but it was prescription stuff, a lot of it, and a lot of alcohol. I wondered at the time if she'd felt off, or sleepy, or something, and pulled over to rest, but she passed out apparently, and aspirated on her own..." Erik stopped speaking, swallowing convulsively. "I had to identify the body, and it wasn't a pretty sight."

Christine sat silently, digesting his words. "But why the airport? I mean, that seems like a weird place to go."

He shrugged. "I have no idea. She was alone when she drove in; the security cameras caught it. We'll probably never know. I wondered, for a while, if she'd committed suicide, but it was so unlike her. Carla didn't give a damn about anyone but herself, and she liked herself far too much to kill herself." His fingers had tightened into a white-knuckled grip.

She shook her head. "I don't understand. You said you'd...that you'd killed her."

"Still ready to be my judge and executioner, Christine?" he sneered. "After the accident, she'd lost out on several opportunities for roles, while she recovered, and she blamed me for that, for ruining her career. She lost the only thing she cared about. And if it was suicide I drove her to it, and then I didn't call it in when she went missing. If I had, they might have found her in time. Her death is my fault, however you look at it." His voice was thick with self-loathing.

 _Just one last question._ "What about the reporter you assaulted?"

Erik leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "Can't let it go, hmmm? Rick Allen. He was one of the most insistent outside the federal building, at the NTSB inquiry. Always another question, always implying it was deliberate. He kept popping up, in the parking garage, outside the hotel. He said he said information that I'd want to know, that he had an informer, a source. He began implying I might want to meet him privately, to pay for that information. Finally he showed up outside a restaurant one night, in my face, wouldn't move away from the car. He started getting physical, pushed the camera in my face. I'd had a few that night, and I shoved him away, and…" Erik looked down at his hands. "It did not end well." He took another deep breath. "He charged me with assault, and I had…beaten him pretty badly. But there were witnesses who said he would not back off, so…"

"A conviction for assault."

Wearily, he rubbed his face. "Yes. And a hefty fine. But it was so odd, Christine. Afterwards he just vanished. I never heard from him or saw him again."

"What was he hinting at?"

"I've no idea."

"And...the drinking?"

He sighed. "Khan. He dragged me to AA, probably saved my life. It was bad, Christine, I won't lie to you. I owe him more than I can ever repay."

"And so you moved here…with all the security."

"Yes." His voice was exhausted, and he slumped in the chair. "And no one else knew or cared about any of it. Until you."

For the first time he looked directly at her. "I nearly killed her, I nearly killed him. I destroyed her career. And then she was dead and all I could feel was relief. She was right-I am a monster, both inside and out."

* * *

Classes began again the second week of January on a blustery Monday morning. Head down, she trudged into the Student Union building searching for coffee. Herself and dozens of others, it seemed. The lines were hopelessly long.

It had been a horrible, hard week since her conversation with Erik. He'd accepted her apology for digging up his past, but seemed relieved that it was out in the open now, and not surprised when she'd risen to leave, telling him she'd needed to time to think about it. He'd not even been able to meet her eyes.

 _Happy with your little bout of prying, Pandora?_ she'd asked herself a dozen times since that afternoon. She'd been happier not knowing, and yet, if they were to ever become serious about each other, she would have needed to find out eventually.

She'd spent the better part of the week avoiding everyone, even rescheduling a meeting with her advisor to discuss potential thesis topics. Classes were a blessed relief, keeping her aching head and heart occupied for an hour at a stretch. Christine did not call Meg, her usual sounding board, nor did she visit Dr. Valerius or see Raoul. Even the handful of casual friends from her study groups and Master's classes seemed intrusive, and she wondered on occasion if she were dealing with some seasonal depression.

What to do.

She loved a man who believed he'd caused another's death, who had enough history and issues to keep a therapist happy for years. She didn't need this; she had enough issues herself.

So why did her heart ache so?

* * *

The Denver Arts City College had the honor of hosting the annual Barton Scholarship competition that winter. Originally only for vocal music students, the distinguished scholarship had expanded into other performing arts, most notably dance and instrumental talents.

He'd driven down to Boulder and stayed again at the St. Julien Hotel in preparation for his protégé's scholarship competition. The choice of hotel had been a mistake, reminding him painfully of Christine, hearing her echoes in the car and dining room, and avoiding the ballroom where they'd had the one dance. He'd slept poorly, tossing with restless dreams and finally rose at dawn and ordered room service. Erik stood for a long time by the window, sipping coffee and watching the sun rise over the hills.

She'd neither called nor texted in the week since her sudden visit. He couldn't really blame her; she was simply the latest in a lifetime of rejection. But somehow Christine's silence hurt so much worse than the others. He'd been foolish enough to allow hope to warm his starved heart.

Denver was not far from Boulder, but he was in no mood to linger. The boys had flown down the night before, staying elsewhere. but would meet him at the university Alumni Center the following morning. He'd acquired another cup of coffee from the guest services station and and sent the valet for his car, then drove the thirty minutes to the north side of the city. He was early enough to find good parking and went upstairs to wait.

The second floor hallway ran the length of the building, a wide lobby with a late 1970s feel to it, all brown brick, brushed steel, and speckled marble. A handful of other students chatted nervously outside of the small auditorium where the auditions would be held. There were seats conveniently close in a corner by the wide stairwell, and Erik rose as the two approached.

"Thanks for coming, Dr. Martin."

He tilted his head. "Of course. I am glad to see you are on time. Have you checked in with the registrar?"

Demetrius glanced at his partner. "Downstairs, yes. Do we need to do anything up here?"

Erik shook his head and resumed his seat, waving them over. "No, just wait for your name to be called."

Kevin wore a very new suit and tie, self-conscious and awkward in his unaccustomed finery. He dropped his portfolio of sheet music on the red plastic chair and paced, nervously polishing his glasses and making repeated trips to the water fountain.

Finally Demetrius rose and grabbed him by the arms. "Kevin. Sit down. You're making me crazy."

"This was a mistake," he muttered. "I'm not ready, I don't know what I'm doing, I'll screw it up and then what." He raked one hand through his red hair and pulled at his tie.

Demetrius batted his hands away and carefully straightened the tie, leaning toward him, locking eyes with his partner, his voice low and soothing. "You got this, Kev. I believe in you. Now get your ass in gear and your act together. You're going to be fine. The doc and me, we've heard you. You can do it. The doc over there, he wouldn't be here if he didn't think you were ready. So shut up, man, you're working yourself into a panic attack." He pulled a comb from his back pocket and handed it to his boyfriend. "Go comb your hair."

Kevin took a deep breath and turned to the window, combing his hair carefully in the reflection. He gave them a strained grin. "Sorry."

"It's perfectly normal," Erik said in his deep warm voice, hoping to ease the young man's butterflies. "I was terrified of every contest and had a case of the nerves before every show." He hadn't, he'd been cocky and arrogant, sure of his abilities, but the boy didn't need to hear that. "It gets better with time."

Kevin nodded and handed the comb back. Demetrius grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard.

"Kevin Spencer?" A young music student looked up and down the hallway, clutching a clipboard and frowning, and Kevin rose, waving vaguely in her direction. "You're next. Follow me, please."

He nodded and looked at Erik, who handed him the portfolio of music and shook his hand. "Good luck." Kevin flashed him a nervous grin and turned to the young man standing beside Erik. They hugged tightly.

"You got this, Kev," he said fiercely. "Do it for us." Kevin stepped back, nodding, and without a word turned and went in the auditorium. The young man turned to Erik. "Now what?"

"We wait," he simply, and returned to the row of chairs. The young man sat nearby and kept glancing down the hall, clearly anxious.

"I wish I could lean against the door and listen." His long brown fingers drummed nervously on the chair arm.

"How long have you known Kevin?" Erik said, to distract him.

Demetrius turned. "Believe it or not, high school. My family moved to this stupid little mid-western town, to be near my aunts. I was the only Black kid in the building who didn't do sports. I wanted to draw, to paint. I'm good at it. It was fine in the city; I'd gone to this magnet school with a bunch of other kids like me. We were all a bit weird, but everyone had talent, goals, you know? In Duplaine it just got me beaten up. It sucked, being different. I just wanted out of there, nearly ran away until I literally ran into Kevin. He was this overweight kid in the band. Glasses. Carried music books with him. He worshiped Jimmy Dorsey, Duke Ellington, didn't go to church." Demetrius shook his head. "I thought I'd had it rough. They beat on him every day, all that corn-fed beef."

Erik snorted and the boy looked up. "The football team, you know. Small town politics. Those guys could have kicked a dog down main street or tortured kittens and they'd have been fine. Football is king out there, and we were two gay kids. They made our lives a living hell."

He shrugged. "So we ended up together by default, allies against the jocks, we said. We went to State together as roommates, and one thing kinda led to another. His family pretty much disowned him when he came out. Mine's not happy, but at least they still speak to me. Came here for grad school; both of us had scholarships. We worked our asses off, and we're going to make it. Together. He's so talented. I can get a job anywhere. I'm working on him, making him eat better, get some exercise. He's slimmed down a lot, and I don't want him to burn out." He took a deep breath. "He's my partner. I hope he gets this scholarship. It means a lot to him."

Erik nodded. "I'm sure he'll do well. Kevin's got a lot of talent, and skill. He knows his pieces inside and out." He picked up the phone, rubbing one long thumb across the screen automatically. No new messages. He slipped it back in the jacket pocket.

"I know he does. He plays in his sleep, you know?" Demetrius mimed fingers moving on a blanket. "He thinks you're awesome, by the way, Dr. Martin."

"Call me Erik, please," he said stiffly. "I'm no longer a professor at the college."

The younger man looked over at him. "You should be. Kevin says you're the best instructor he's ever had, even if it's only been six or seven months. He says you really know your stuff. Technique and performing and all that." He paused. "Did you really write that piece he's doing for the free choice part?"

"Yes."

"It's really good. I'm not into that kind of music; Alternative is more my thing, but I can tell it's good." He grinned. "Thanks for all you've done for him."

"My pleasure."

In his pocket, the phone lay silent.

* * *

The phone vibrated deep in her pocket, chiming its cheery incoming text message noise as she left the lecture hall.

 _Chris, would you meet me for lunch tomorrow?_

She stared at the text, mixed nausea and anger rising in her throat. _I'm not sure that's a good idea._

 _I'm sorry if you're still mad at me. I'm sorry, Chris, I really am. That was rotten of me. I just want to see you one more time before I head back to Seattle._

 _Seattle? Fine. When and where?_

* * *

"I really thought you meant this semester, Raoul. I didn't know you were leaving now," Christine said, distressed. They'd met at Cowboy Coffee Company in the Union and took their drinks to a table. Raoul slammed down his bag and dropped into a seat.

"Goddammit," he said bitterly, "just one more semester and I'd have been done. Just four more months." Raoul dragged a hand down his face, rubbing the beginnings of a two-day old beard. "It's been crazy. Spent Monday and Tuesday withdrawing from classes, selling back my books, trying to get out of the lease. God, it's been a mess."

"I'm so sorry," Christine said with genuine sympathy. "How's your family?"

"Not your fault. Oh, they're frantic, I guess. Louisa keeps telling me how she's put everything on hold to be there for Mother, Phil is suddenly in charge of the entire company, and Mother sends me updates on Dad every five minutes laced with guilt. You know the kind. _If you'd only been here he wouldn't have worked himself into a heart attack_ ," he mimicked. "That kind of thing. But Dad's doing ok. They did a triple bypass on him and stabilized his blood sugar. I had no idea he was a Type 2 diabetic. From his weight, I guess, and he never got any exercise, but he sure didn't tell anyone. Anyway, I've got to be there until he's back on his feet. Phil can't do all this alone."

Christine squeezed his hand. "That's awful, Raoul. Can you come back later to finish your MBA?"

He sighed, discouraged. "I don't know. I might just try to transfer the credits there. God, I don't want to move back home again."

She nodded, remembering her one glance of his childhood bedroom, all nautical prints, plastic Navy ship models, and a large wooden toy sailboat with real canvas sails that lined his walls. "Yeah, it would be weird."

"I'll get an apartment as soon as Dad's home and out of danger, but in the meantime..." he grimaced and downed the last of his coffee. "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know, and say goodbye."

She nodded. "You let me know how it goes, ok? If there's anything I can do..."

"There isn't. But thank you anyway."

"Keep in touch, ok?"

They'd parted with a hug and she'd watched him walk away, heading in the direction of the Student Union parking garage, feeling suddenly completely bereft.

* * *

The campus was pretty enough, if one liked scenes done in black, white and various shades of brown and grey, like a old-fashioned sepia print, or a painting from one of the Dutch masters. Brightly colored puffy winter jackets in shades of turquoise, cobalt, and fuchsia gave the snow-covered lawn its only flashes of color.

Wilham Hall was not an ideal place to wait for her next class; always too hot or too cold, with no adequate ventilation. Windows fogged over and the metal stairwell railings sweated with moisture from the trapped humidity. Christine preferred to wait outside, even in the freezing temperatures, clutching a cup of coffee in one blue-gloved hand.

At least the weather had improved from dismal to merely dull. Grey skies, grey fields, grey slush, grey mood. Only the bare tree branches, silhouetted in lacy patterns against the sky, were pretty.

She took another sip of coffee, wishing it would hurry up and be time for class. The thirty minute period between her last lecture and scheduled time slot in the Language Immersion Lab was only half an hour; long enough for a restroom break but not much else. Certainly not long enough to fight the straggling lunch lines of the Union Food Court.

The wind picked up, sending a copy of the Collegiate Times skittering by and automatically Christine reached out a foot, stopping it. The campus newspaper was a small-format, eight page publication produced by the journalism department, and best known for the editorials (suspected to be censored), crossword (too easy), and ads. This copy wasn't too damp, and idly she turned the pages, avoiding the usual ravings about various sports programs.

 _State Music Student Wins Barton Scholarship_

Music. She pushed down the pang and read. A graduate student in the music department had won some prestigious-sounding scholarship, the first student in the history of the university to do so. The young man, a Kevin Spencer, wished to thank Dr. Erik Martin and Dr. Frederick Van Eaton for their assistance.

Dr. Erik Martin.

Numbly, she folded the paper carefully and tucked it back into the distribution bin.

It had been nearly three weeks now since her conversation with Raoul and confrontation with Erik. He hadn't tried to contact her since, nor had she talked to him. Either he was giving her space or he didn't care as much as she'd hoped he did. Maybe it was all a mistake and she'd be better off just sticking to her Master's program and returning home, but her heart hurt at the thought.

He'd been a different man when she'd finally risen to leave that afternoon. Quiet, withdrawn, but with a subdued anger and bitterness and resignation that had torn at her heart. She'd wanted to throw her arms around him and promise it would be okay, that it didn't matter.

But it did.

Erik Martin was a man with problems.

She'd never seen him drink to excess, never have more than one, in fact, but he was an admitted alcoholic, and had a temper. He'd denied striking Carla, but she had only his word for it, and he had a conviction for assault. Christine shivered, feeling the cold grasp of nausea creep up her throat. She'd sworn that was one situation she would never become involved with, ever again. The physical scars had healed, but she wasn't sure the mental ones ever would.

And yet she could still feel his arms around her, remembered the look of incredulous disbelief and fragile hope when she'd kissed him, how he'd held her like something precious, the silky texture of his hair and tense, wiry hardness of his thin shoulders, the brush of his long fingers around hers, sending her pulse racing. The wry lift of an eyebrow and that warm, vibrant voice sending tremors to her core. Oh, her body wanted more of him, but her mind resisted.

She picked up the phone.

* * *

.

Thank you for reading, and please review?


	23. Chapter 23 Distress Call

**A/N—** I'm glad you all liked Kevin and Demetrius. We'll them them again soon. Yes, Raoul is out of the scene...for a while, anyway….

Grandma Paula—I've missed seeing you around! Thank you for your comments. :)  
And a huge thanks to everyone for all the lovely comments on the last chapter. I appreciate you all hanging in there for the infrequent updates! I hope you enjoy this one as well!

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chp 23 Distress Call

2017, 2018

.

He spied the objects lying on the desk, at first thinking they were props. But it was there, lying dusty and slumped amongst the others, a small fancy black purse, visible through the glass. A few other motley items lay scattered on the desk—sunglasses, keys, an old Motorola phone, a man's worn leather wallet, a heavy silver bracelet. He tried the doorknob causally but it was locked as usual. He stepped back, staring through the window, then ducked into the men's room, thinking hard.

Footsteps in the corridor and a heavy rolling sound...probably Buquet on his evening rounds. He quickly washed his hands and exited the restroom just as Firmin was emerging from the Managers' Office.

"Rehearsal just get out?" he grunted.

"No, they're still at it. You're here late."

"Just got out of a meeting." Firmin shrugged into his coat, pulling the door to.

"Hold up!"

Joseph Buquet came out of the women's restroom and pushed past, grabbing the trash can by the desk.

Firmin glance at his watch with a grimace. "Lock up, will you, Joe? I've got to dash. The wife is waiting on me already with the in-laws and I'll never hear the end of it." He thrust the hat on his head and walked away quickly, footsteps tapping sharply down the tile hallway.

"Sure thing, Mr. Firmin," Buquet called after him, emptying the trashcan and grabbing a broom.

He leaned casually in the doorway. "How's it going, Joe?"

"The usual," the man grumbled. "I sure could use a smoke. Hate late night rehearsals."

He nodded sympathetically and gestured at the desk. "What's with the junk?"

Joe Buquet leaned on his broom. "Man, who knows. The shit that goes on around here, sometimes, I swear." He nodded encouragingly and the man continued. "You remember them new interns? Firmin set 'em to clearing out the prop room, doin' inventory and such. I never seen such a mess. Anyways, they got into some of them old trunks, the ones against the back wall, you know? And found that stuff. They didn't think it was props and brought it in here."

He shifted feet. "You remember a few years back all them thefts? We thought there was a thief here, maybe one of the college kids in that show?" He gestured at the desk. "Turns out that stuff there is most of what was took, the stuff that went missin'. They're gonna try to send it back to folks ifn they can find where they are, now. Leastwise it's not my problem." He began quickly sweeping along the floorboards. "You headin' out now?"

"Yeah, I'm done for the day. Take it easy, Joe."

"You too."

He left, frowning in thought.

* * *

The gas fireplace ignited, filling the small apartment with a cozy glow of heat. Christine carefully set the last two bowls of smoked wings and warm dip on the table, moving over as Meg returned with glasses and napkins.

"I'm so glad you suggested a girls' night out, even if we're in," Meg said, lazily crossing one long leg over the other, "and glad I had a day off." She reached for the glass of white, self-conscious of the very new diamond sparkling on one hand.

"I'm so happy for you," Christine grinned. "So what finally pushed you over the edge?" She dragged a chip through the warm spinach-artichoke-cheese dip. "Mmm. This has got to be like a thousand calories a bite."

Meg took a long sip of wine. "Mike's back," she said flatly, and Christine blanched. She put a hand on her friend's knee. "Sorry, Chris, but I thought you needed to know before you accidentally ran into him."

"Yeah. Thanks. Whose life is he ruining this time?" she asked bitterly.

"I saw him with Cassandra. Do you remember her? She was in our class."

"Yeah, Andi. I thought she was married."

"Not anymore." Meg's voice was grim. "At least they're not together. And yeah, I tried talking to her but you know how it is."

Christine shuddered. Suave, charming, and a tennis player, Mike Sims had been a junior god among their high school group. An invitation to one of his pool parties had been the social goal of half the school population. She forced her mind away from it. "So how does that relate to the sparkly?"

"I guess it finally hit me that I had a great guy and I'd be stupid to let him go," Meg admitted. "There are so many many Mikes out there. I thought poor Brian was going to have a heart attack, and I cried like an idiot."

"Wish I'd seen it," Christine forced a smile

"Oh yeah. I was a mess. Mascara everywhere. Mom's thrilled, too, already making lists."

Mrs. Giry's lists were legendary, meticulous in detail and formidable in length, and Christine laughed. "She'll have so much fun with that."

"Yeah," Meg said gloomily. "We may just elope instead."

* * *

 _Another box?_ Irritated, Erik read the yellow slip left at his mailbox and sighed. He'd just come from town. Well, no help for it. He backed out of the drive again and headed for the post office.

* * *

"Hello?" She frowned at the unfamiliar number, tapping her pencil.

"Ms. Daaé?" The deep voice was rough, tight with worry. "Thank God. This is Nadir Khan, Dr. Khan. Do you remember me?"

Her heart seemed to trip and then accelerated, a downhill swoop on an amusement park ride. "Yes, of course. What's going on?"

He spoke, staccato-sharp. "I only have a minute here. Please, I need your help. I have had a most unusual phone call from our...mutual friend...and I am very much concerned about him. If you can, could you please do a...go over there and check on him?"

"Yes, of course. What can I do?" Tendrils of panic laced up her spine.

"I am simply swamped here at the clinic and I cannot get away for some time, but I do have an emergency key to his back door. If you can come by here I'll leave it at the front desk. Just...go check on him. Maybe it's my imagination, but I don't think so. Ms. Daaé, I hate to put you into this situation but I simply cannot think of anyone else to ask, and he trusts you."

She stared hard at the pewter grey sky, thinking. "I can be to your office in about fifteen minutes, and to his house about ten after that."

"That will be acceptable. I'll leave an envelope for you at the front desk. And thank you, Ms. Daaé." The phone clicked off in her ear. A moment later she had swept her Stat manual and notebook into her backpack, and was heading for the parking lot.

* * *

The front door had been locked, as was usual for Erik who was obsessive about security. With no answer to her ring Christine had walked down the hill and around to the back of the house, slipping in the snow, feeling alternately like an intruder and terrified. Khan's note, scribbled hastily on an office pad, had asked her to call him back with a report. A silver key was loose in the envelope.

She peered in cautiously through the back French doors, cupping her hands around her face to see into the darkened room. There was a figure on the sofa, motionless. Her hands were shaking; it was hard to fit the key into the upper lock.

He was seated on the leather sofa, staring out the back French doors, a glass of scotch in his hand. She shut the door in a wave of relief.

"My angel." His voice was light, impersonal.

"Erik?" She walked slowly across the room. He looked haggard, his jacket discarded and tie loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, and hair tousled. Those black eyes started at her knees and slowly traveled up to her face.

"Christine." He raised the glass and took a sip.

A box lay open on the table before him, packing peanuts scattered, next to a woman's purse, grey dust on the beaded, brocade surface. A half-empty bottle stood beside it. She frowned and turned her attention back to the man, who took another long sip from the glass.

"You're drunk."

"Not yet." His painfully precise words and unfocused eyes belied that statement.

Christine sat slowly on the sofa beside him. "Dr. Khan called me."

"Ah."

"Whose purse is that?"

He gestured carefully with the glass. "Carla's of course. Who else would keep turning up like a bad..." He paused, clearly searching for the right word.

She changed the subject, even though she knew the answer. "How did Kevin's audition go the other day?"

The bleary eyes traveled back to her. "He aced it. Knocked it out of the ballpark. Hit a home run. Won the big one..."

Christine sighed and took the glass from him. "That's good to know. But my friend, you are drunk. Wasted, plastered, tanked. Let's get you upstairs to bed."

"Friend," he said mournfully, attempting to stand and nearly falling. She clutched his bony frame quickly to prevent him from rolling onto the floor, fighting the rising panic in her throat. As thin as he was, he still outweighed her. The two tumbled down onto the sofa, Erik's arms locked around her, twisting them both sideways. Even drunk his thought had been for her safety.

They landed clutching each other, with Christine halfway in his lap, an awkward embrace. Erik stared down at her. "Christine," he said again with difficulty, as one hand trailed gently down to her hip. "You 'kay?"

Christine blinked at the smell of alcohol; his breath was foul. "Yes, Erik."

"'s good." Clumsily, he patted her shoulder.

Erik's arms tightened around her, pulling her closer, his unshaven chin scratching against her temple. His shoulder was unforgiving, the collarbone far too prominent, but Christine shut her eyes, leaning into it. A moment passed, and then his fingers began tracing small circles on her skin, sending tingles deep inside. She was tempted to remain there, just holding him, though the sharp edge of his chin dug painfully into her scalp.

Reluctantly she wiggled off his lap and stood, holding out both hands. "Can you walk?"

"'Yes." He slowly extended the bad leg, hissing in pain. He must have twisted it, going down, and she winced in sympathy. "No."

"Just sit there then a minute," she urged.

A sudden banging on the door made her jump. Khan rattled doorknob, and she rushed to let him in.

"I thought you couldn't get away?"

"One canceled and I canceled the other," he growled, striding over to Erik and dropping a medikit on the floor beside him. "Goddammit, Erik, how many sleeping pills did you take?"

He stared blearily up at his friend. "Two? Last night?"

"Sleeping pills?" Christine asked.

"Prescription," Khan said shortly, one hand on Erik's wrist. "He hasn't been sleeping. Goddammit, Erik, you know better than to mix alcohol with sleeping pills!"

"Forgot."

"Right." He dropped the wrist and glared at his friend. "Of all the damn fool things to do. You know better than that!"

"Whatever," he muttered sullenly. "Didn't need you to call _her._ "

"You'd rather I left you here? Come on, Erik, up you go." Khan said firmly, bending and sliding one arm around the other man's shoulders.

"Don't need to."

"Don't argue with your doctor," he snapped. "Come on."

"Fine."

Numbly, she followed the men up the stairs and down the hall into his bedroom. Like the rest of the house it was in disarray, clothes scattered, the bed unmade and musty. Khan dumped the other man down and Erik slumped over, lying back. As Khan scooped his legs up on the bed and began to loosen Erik's belt, Christine knelt and began untying his shoes through a blur of tears, sliding them from his long, narrow feet, and placing them carefully at the foot of the bed.

"Get his cotton mask, will you?" Khan said brusquely, pointing at a night stand. "I'm going to take the prosthetic off of him; it'll get ruined if he sleeps on it."

She nodded and he crossed the room, going into the adjoining bathroom. She heard water running.

The top drawer of the night stand yielded a soft cotton mask with elastic bands. She laid it on the top and looked down. Erik lay there, dark circles under his eyes, and she reached out, gently stroking back the hair from his face. He didn't move, his breathing shallow and uneven.

"Go on, Ms. Daae," Khan said tiredly, placing a warm wet washcloth again the edge of the facial prosthetic. "I'll take it from here."

She nodded and turned to go, glancing back one last time as Khan bent over the bed.

* * *

Down the hall, she looked about helplessly. Dust lay on the surfaces, with the stale, stagnant air of a house too-long closed, a litter of empty glasses and half-finished meals on the counter. She could at least tidy up a bit while Khan was with Erik. Christine headed back downstairs, intending to gather anything needing washed.

She flipped the bolt in the French doors and looked around He'd not been in the workshop; dust lay on the counters, but no tools or instruments were out. The stereo cabinet too seemed fine; and she began collecting mugs and glasses, leaving them in the kitchenette sink. There were more on the coffee table, along with the box and its contents.

Christine returned the bottle of scotch to the cabinet, for a moment debating simply pouring it down the drain. That wouldn't solve the problem, though. She swept the packing peanuts back into the box and set it aside. Under the box was a note, short and to the point. Curious, she raised it.

 _Mr. Martin,_

 _The item contained in the package you have received was discovered in a chest in the props room at the Denver South Theater. Upon examination of the contents we believe that it belonged to your late wife, Carla Giudicelli. Perhaps you will remember the rash of small thefts from that time. The trunk seems to have been the hiding place of the objects. We still do not have any idea as to the identity of the thief._

 _If you have any questions, please feel free to contact us at ###########._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Richard Firmin_

So the handbag was Carla's. It looked like something the diva might have carried, and no wonder the sudden appearance had sent Erik into a downward spiral. She sighed and folded the note back into its envelope. The bag slumped and the contents spilled, a lipstick rolling out. Christine picked it up, surprised at the ornate case, and opened it. Blunt and rounded, the dark pink lipstick emitted an old waxy cloying scent and hastily she closed the top, thrusting it back into the purse and reflexively wiped her hands on her jeans. Unable to resist looking, she opened the bag. An older model mobile phone, no doubt long dead, a wallet, the lipstick, tissues, and car keys. She glanced through the wallet, and immediately felt sick. _Nothing good ever comes from being nosy,_ she told herself viciously.

The wallet had fallen open to a series of photos. Carla, looking particularly vivacious in a chorus-girl type outfit, Carla, standing next to Erik, the top of her head barely brushing his shoulder. Carla in a row of cast members, taking a curtain call. No family pictures, though, or a wedding photo. Disgusted with her snooping, Christine shut the wallet and pushed it back down into the purse.

Where to put it all, though? She didn't want to leave these things just lying out. Finally she set the purse back into the box and left it on a shelf in the small side room he seemed to use for storage and shut the door. She'd tell him about it later.

A few minutes later she'd wiped down the table and headed back upstairs, carrying the dirty mugs and glasses. Hopefully there was soap for the dishwasher.

* * *

Khan took the mug of tea she offered and walked to the sink, idly dunking the bag up and down in the steaming water. "Thank you."

"How is he?"

"Asleep. Or passed out, one of the two. I'll stay here a while and keep an eye on things. Probably spend the night, to be sure he's ok." He set the bag aside and took a long sip.

"Milk, sugar?"

"No thank you."

She nodded, adjusting her own tea. "Should he go to the hospital?"

Khan smiled grimly. "He'll be fine; he just won't thank me for it later."

"If it's okay, I'd like to stay a while as well." Christine gestured at the kitchen. "I can get some of this cleaned up, I guess."

Khan nodded tiredly. "Not a bad idea. He won't thank you either, though."

"I know." They drank their tea in silence for a minute. She took a deep breath. "Dr. Khan, please. I need to know what happened, back then…with Carla."

"You care about Erik, don't you." It was not a question.

"Yes," she said softly. "Maybe it's foolish, but I do. I know there are problems. He's got a lot of baggage. But yes. And...that's why I need to know."

"He told me you'd had a discussion about it." The older Iranian leaned against the sink, staring out the window across the yard. "You will keep this in confidence?"

She nodded. "Of course. It's just that if we are going to...be involved…I have to know the truth."

"Yes. I can see that." He turned to face her. "Sit down, Ms. Daae." He gestured at a chair.

"It's difficult for me to be objective, to some extent. You see—I didn't like Carla. Not even at the beginning. She was beautiful, yes, and very talented, but she was selfish, and she had a cruel streak. She was not good for him, but... He was a foster child, you know, desperate in some ways for someone to care about him, to be a permanent part of his life." The dark eyes were sad.

"They met at the university, there in Colorado. She was a special scholarship student, in some sort of advanced studies program, and he was her preferred accompanist. She worked hard, I'll give her that. Clubs and community theater, working her way up, beginning to get some good press. They traveled together, and eventually married. He was her manager as well. Even when the affairs began, and she came crawling back to him…she…threw herself at him and I suppose he just wanted to believe it. He knew she was unfaithful."

"He told me that," she said quietly. "It must have been awful."

"Humiliating, yes. She was using him; he just couldn't see it, or maybe he didn't want to see it. He wrote for her, you know, some of her most popular songs."

"I didn't know that."

"Oh yes. Before the accident, Erik was a rising star in his own right. He was good, too, composing some pieces for movies and tv shows, for the occasional performer. I think Carla was envious of that. She didn't enjoy sharing the limelight and she had quite a temper. She also didn't mind being public about it."

"I saw the testimony," Christine winced.

"At the trial?" Khan shook his head. "Erik didn't do himself any favors on the witness stand. With that mask—he didn't have the prosthetics yet- and his attitude—he was so cold and arrogant. It didn't come off well. But in the end they couldn't accuse him. She'd made all these dramatic threats for years, and it was decided she'd finally gone through with it."

"Suicide."

He nodded. "The prosecutor made a good case of it—his fingerprints on the thermos and in the car. But they shared the car and the thermos came from the house—there was no reason why his prints wouldn't have been on them. And no camera in the parking lot itself, so no help there either way."

"And then the reporter."

He sighed. "And then the reporter. He wouldn't leave it alone; kept following Erik around, kept asking questions amongst the staff and students. And finally Erik couldn't take it anymore—he'd been drinking that night and damn near beat the man to death. And when his medical leave of absence ended, the Dean asked him not to return. He was tenured; they couldn't fire him, but Erik never taught another class. And it's a pity; he was a gifted, brilliant teacher."

Khan looked at her directly. "If you're asking me if I think he's guilty of murder, the answer is no. He has a horrific temper, always has had, but it was always directed at himself, never others, until that reporter."

"And the drinking?"

Khan made a dismissive gesture. "He was self-medicating, and was a fool for doing so. I told him so. I'm no psychologist, but I don't think Erik felt he had anything to live for."

He finished his tea and set the mug by the sink. "After Erik met you, that was the first time in years I'd seen him with any hope."

"And then I screwed it up," she said bitterly, and he raised a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. "You two need to talk. You'd have needed to find out all that anyway, but yes, it wasn't a good evening for him." He rolled his head, stretching neck muscles. "I'll be back; going to check on him." Khan left the room.

Christine rose and began gathering mugs and plates, stacking them in the sink, letting hot water run over the worst of it. She quickly filled the top rack and went in search of other dishes.

* * *

If anything, the front room was in even worse shape. Erik seemed to have been living at the piano. A half-dozen other instruments lay discarded around the bench—his violin and guitar, but also a flute and a cello. She hadn't known he played them.

The top of the grand was covered in a litter of wadded sheet music and empty cups, or cups in various stages of growing mold. Fortunately the instrument was draped with fabric—a jacket and two shirts. Several pairs of shoes lay scattered on the floor, and ink pens rolled under her feet. Christine sighed and began returning the crockery to the sink, tossing the clothing to the sofa for later removal.

She began collecting the music, mostly hand-written pages, into a large pile. There didn't seem to be any order to it; sheets lying on the floor or crumpled into balls. She smoothed one out, a melody line complete with chords and a base line merely sketched in. The next page yielded the same basic theme, but more completed, with some additional notes on phrasing and tempo.

Christine pushed the mess aside and sat at the keyboard. She'd had some years of piano instruction, continuing to take lessons well into her teen years. Pressing down the damper pedal, she attempting his score.

It was soft, with a yearning aching tone, a song that began in a minor key. There were no words, no indication of completion, but it was haunting, a melody that she could hear in her head afterwards.

Feeling as if she'd violated his privacy again, Christine stacked the pages on the lid. One of the sheets caught her eye, the same piece, but with a title…. _Christine_.

She blinked at it, surprised. Was he writing for her?

* * *

 _C—Would you please meet me at Frangelico's? I would like to apologize._

She stared at the message a long moment before sliding the phone back into her pocket. It had been several days since her abrupt visit to his house. Erik had been asleep at the end, and Dr. Khan had walked her out to the car and held her hands in his large warm ones.

"Thank you, my dear," he'd said and she'd hugged him briefly.

Christine leaned against the counter, staring out through the back deck doors where snow swirled across the frozen surface of the lake, and probed at her feelings. He'd been profoundly drunk, but she'd not felt anger, only a sorrow and sad affection. She'd wanted to hold him and somehow make it better, make the pain go away. Maybe she could just hear him out, let him apologize without making any commitments to the future.

* * *

The black Mercedes waited two spots away, slowly gathering a light dusting of snow. The flakes accumulated on the hood without melting; he'd been here for some time. Probably out walking, she thought; the trattoria was located on the edge of a marsh wildlife sanctuary. In the summer greedy ducks and geese gathered below the back deck, hoping someone would forget and throw them out bits of bread. She'd been here with Raoul before, walking the trails.

Friday evenings were crowded and noisy inside the wine bar and bistro. Christine bought a small coffee at the bar to warm her hands and walked through the tables toward the back. The deck of the trattoria was covered, a glassed in area with large metal space heaters. Even then it was chilly but blessedly more quiet.

He leaned against the wooden ledge that surrounded the deck, a thin figure wrapped in a long black overcoat. An empty cup sat on the rail, and she wondered again how he seemed to be so impervious to the cold. She came to stand deliberately on his masked side, and said nothing, sipping her turtle mocha, waiting.

"I wasn't sure you'd be here." He didn't look at her.

"I wasn't sure, either. But here I am."

"I'm sorry you had to see that, Christine," he said abruptly. "It certainly wasn't my intent. Khan shouldn't have involved you in any of it; he's a meddling old fool."

"How are you feeling?" she said, after a moment, and he made a dismissive gesture.

"Better than the other day. Khan stayed the night, made sure I didn't do anything else stupid. I'm not proud of it, Christine. I haven't lost control like that in a long time."

"So what brought it on? The box?"

"Partially that. It was so unexpected, and the scent...like a horrible dream. I didn't think I'd ever smell her perfume again." He shook his head, as if to clear it. "But that was only part of it."

"Then what was it, Erik?" she said, suddenly angry. "Because if I'm going to be involved with you that kind of bullshit cannot happen. My parents were _killed_ by a goddamn drunk driver, and there is no way I'm going to tolerate that kind of thing."

" _Are_ you going to be involved with me? I can't imagine why you'd want to be," he said bitterly.

"Because I care about you," she snapped. "And frankly, I'm tired of this self-pitying crap." She took a deep breath and softened her tone. "Erik. I like you. You're smart, interesting, seriously talented…I enjoy hanging out with you. That night when we were singing...that was the best. I'd like to do it again."

Erik's hands had tightened on the railing. "Forgive me, Christine, but I have a hard time accepting that."

"Then that's your problem."

He finally glanced at her, his face tight and angry. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Don't ever tell me I don't know what I'm doing or what I want," she snapped. He turned away, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

"Then what do you want with a devil like me," he said quietly.

"That's for me to decide." She put a hand over his on the railing, and after a moment he caught her fingers in his.

* * *

.

Next up...a little romance...

Thank you for reading, and please leave a comment!


	24. Chapter 24 Goonight

**A/N—** My apologies for this update taking so long. While it was 90% written, the bits that needed work were giving me no end of trouble. Thank you for the lovely notes in the meantime, and I hope you liked the two kiss prompt pieces I submitted in the interim. the rating goes up with this chapter, be advised. Onward...to some phluff!

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chp 24 Goodnight

2016, 2017, 2018

.

The phone chimed its notification of a text message and Erik spun it around on the counter, jabbing the button with his last clean finger. His scowl turned thoughtful; Kevin was on the rotation for performing this month. He gave the date; he and Demetrius would be pleased to see Dr. Martin again.

Erik sat back on the high stool, fastidiously wiping his hands on a spirit-soaked rag, removing the smears of varnish. The news of the last week had been unusually positive; there had been a phone call from his agent saying there had been interest in one of his older pieces for use in a TV series, and a note from the university inquiring if he might have the time or inclination to take on another special student or two. Kevin's scholarship had seemingly pulled his name into a more favorable light, and while he had a healthy distrust of optimism, this latest note seemed too good of an opportunity to ignore. He tapped the phone.

 _C—Are you free on Friday night next week?_

* * *

She leaned against the sink bringing up the phone calendar. No pressing reminders of assignments or study groups claimed the date. _Yes,_ she typed back, and a moment later the phone rang.

"Christine. The Jazz Lab is having a concert on that Friday…Swing Night at the Lab. Music from the 1940s and 50s. I was wondering if you would like to attend with me." There was an undercurrent of excitement in his voice.

"As in Big Band stuff? Sure, I'd love to."

"There might even be…dancing…involved," he warned.

"With you?" Her delighted laughter washed away the last traces of his nervousness.

"Yes…I might just manage one or two. Dr. Khan's orders to exercise, you know."

"Of course," she said solemnly. "Thank you for inviting me."

"And Christine…the band will be performing one of my songs." He waited, not wanting to say more.

"Erik! One of yours? Something you've written? That's awesome! I can't wait to hear it!"

"It may not be your type of thing," he warned.

"Nonsense! I've heard you play…it will be fantastic. I'm so excited for you!"

* * *

Characteristically, Meg dragged her up to the city for a shopping expedition. "Honestly, Christine…you just cannot go to a jazz bar in virginal white. Wear red. It will knock his socks off."

"I don't wear red."

"You're a grown-ass woman. It's time to start."

She'd invited herself and Brian along as well. "I can't wait to meet this deformed genius you're hiding." She put hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes speculatively. "You've never hidden a boyfriend before."

"Meg! Don't say that! That's awful! And he's not my boyfriend."

She sighed, shaking blond curls. "Oh honey. So do not go there. This guy is something special to you. You've talked about him for months and won't let us meet him. You're holding out on me."

Thus Christine had braved the long drive up the valley between the white-covered mountains to see her oldest friend. The roads were clear and she'd made the trip in a little over two hours. They'd gone for pizza and shopping, and now, on the way home, the red dress, silky and fitted, flared at the hips, lay nestled in a hanging bag in the back of the car. It was not a dress for cold weather, but then again, that wasn't the point.

* * *

Meg and Brian arrived in town one week later. Christine gave dinner recommendations and refused their invitation to tag along, knowing the two had little enough time together. An hour or so afterward they arrived at Christine's condo. Brian enfolded her in a warm bear hug, then excused himself to sweep the snow from the stairs and porch area while the two women dressed.

Girls' time was always a necessity before a big date. Having someone else to zip a dress and help with pinning one's unruly hair was a blessing. Meg swirled her blond curls up and over to one side, letting them cascade in a loose riot, but insisted on doing Christine's hair, twisting the coffee-brown strands into a sleek up-do, expertly wrapping one piece into a long coil to lie across her shoulder. They were nearly done when Brian stuck his head in the door with a warning.

The black Mercedes slid in under the mostly empty carport. Erik tucked his scarf closely around his neck and self-consciously checked the prosthetic in the mirror. She would be waiting upstairs with the friends she wanted him to meet. It felt important, a change in their relationship.

Christine opened the door on his first knock. Erik's normally impassive face creased into a smile and he whistled softly, pulling her hand up and twirling her around so that the skirt flared out. "The lady in red," he said. "You are stunning."

Christine flushed with pleasure and squeezed his hand, rising on her toes to brush a kiss across his good cheek. "You're pretty dashing yourself, sir." She pulled him into her warm apartment where the two friends were waiting. "Meg, Brian, this is Erik Martin. Erik, my friends Meg Giry and Brian Tolliver."

Brian was a broad-shouldered quiet man with the unmistakable air of a military veteran. He stepped forward and shook Erik's hand with a simple "Nice to meet you."

Meg managed to subdue her usual effusive hugs and gave him a dazzling smile. "It's lovely to finally get to meet you, Erik!" Christine rolled her eyes and Meg grinned. So this was Christine's mysterious 'friend.' Tall and terribly thin with dark hair, his coal-black eyes were intelligent and wary. He was dressed in a long formal black wool overcoat, leather gloves, and a cashmere scarf that spoke of money. His face was stiff and rather forbidding, but his eyes rarely left Christine.

The three began reaching for coats and scarves. "One car or two?" Christine asked and Meg sighed.

"Two, I think. We'll have to get back to the city tonight, I'm afraid."

* * *

The Jazz Lab occupied the second floor of an old brick warehouse down in the Arts District, a renovated area of trees and trendy restaurants, galleries, boutique shops, and pubs, located only a few blocks from the campus. It was a popular venue for the students, who rented the space for play rehearsals, concerts, parties, and exhibits. A raised stage occupied one end of the worn hardwood floor, and a wet bar the other.

Up the wrought-iron curving stairwell, Erik took Christine's coat and his own to the coat check, then returned bearing a box containing a tiny red rosebud corsage from a fund-raising table. "An old-fashioned flower for an evening of old music," he said, handing it to her with a flourish.

It smelled heavenly and she held it to her face, breathing in the soft fragrance. "It matches my dress! Erik," she said shyly, "would you pin it on? I won't get it straight, otherwise."

"Of course." But he paused, holding it, before reaching out with hands that trembled slightly as they brushed against her warn bare skin and slipped under the neckline of her dress, manipulating the pin so that it would not prick. Christine shut her eyes, his cool caress lingering a moment longer than necessary. Erik slid the pin in place, cursing his fertile imagination. He wanted her badly, this woman who haunted his dreams. Tonight, at least, he would get to hold her in his arms.

The two couples settled at a small table near the stage, Erik choosing as usual to keep the right side of his face in the shadows. He bought the first round of drinks, expensive Scotch for himself and Brian, white wine for Meg, and an amaretto sour for Christine. Christine gave his glass a sharp look and Erik shook his head with a faint smile. "Just one, I promise," he whispered, and she relaxed.

The band had kicked off with several of the old classics— _String of Pearls, In the Mood, Begin the Beguine, American Patrol, Chattanooga Choo-Choo, Pennsylvania 65000,_ and others. Meg grabbed Brian's hands and with a resigned smile he rose and led her to the dance floor. She was wearing the raspberry ruffles dress and every eye was on her, but her hazel eyes were only for Brian. The big man was light on his feet, holding her protectively.

"Isn't she just gorgeous?" Christine sighed, watching them with envy, and noting how Erik's eyes followed them as well with interest. "Meg's always been that way, just stunning."

Erik took a sip of his Scotch appreciatively. "She is that. But I can think of another stunning lady in the house tonight. Would she care to dance?"

Christine blushed. "Yes, if it won't hurt your leg."

"I'll risk it." Erik set aside his drink and stood, holding out one long hand and escorted her to the floor, his palm warm on the small of her back. He moved smoothly, holding her body close to his, their steps in sync, Christine breathless with delight as he spun her around and smoothly through the steps. She caught Meg's smirk and made a horrible face at her friend.

Back at the table Erik loosened his tie, actually smiling, but she saw one hand cautiously touch his face, carefully probing the edges of the prosthetic. She caught his eye and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "You're fine," she whispered quickly, as Meg and Brian returned.

The crowd ebbed and flowed as students came in to earn a performance credit and their friends followed to provide support. A red-haired young man with glasses pressed through the crowd, self-consciously rumpling his hair while his companion waved at Erik with a cheery grin.

"Demetrius Lang...and Kevin Spencer. My student and his partner," he said, raising a hand back to them. Christine nodded, recognizing the name. Various student musicians performed their required pieces, enjoying the kudos and applause that followed. A trio of girls with their hair rolled back came up to the stage next and sang a few of the Andrew Sisters' top tracks, followed by a solo pianist. Christine perched on one of the barstools behind the tables, fanning herself, and Erik pulled up a stool close behind her. His right arm lay on the table and she covered his hand with her own. Erik's breath was warm on her neck, sending delightful little shivers up her spine. Feeling devilish, she stroked his palm with her fingers and felt his breath hitch against her neck. His eyes never moved from the stage, but she felt the tension in his body as she continued to gently trace patterns on his wrist or back of hand. Flirting with Erik was a dangerous new game, a heady sensation.

She leaned back to whisper compliments on the students' skill. "They're excellent. I'd never guess they weren't professional musicians."

"Reyer's pride and joy," he murmured in her ear, sending more delicious shivers down her back. He was close enough she could smell the spicy scent of his aftershave.

Erik swallowed hard, reluctant to move. She was tantalizingly close, so close he could have trailed his lips up the ivory skin revealed by her low neckline, across the sweet smooth column of her throat, and then… Grimly, he shifted on the seat. Surely she didn't mean to tease him with those soft fingers so gently stroking his. It was all he could do not to touch her nearly bare back, to breathe in the scent of her, to kiss the nape of her neck where tiny tendrils escaped her up-swept hair, to wrap a hand around her hip and pull her back against him.

"Good god, my eyes must be deceiving me."

Jules Reyer paused by their table, sporting a bow tie and a glass of stout in one hand, his wiry hair smoothed down, feigning shock. "Erik, you've come out of your cave, for once. I may have to mark it on my calendar as an Occasion."

Christine tried to hide a smile and Meg was stifling her laughter in a napkin behind them. Erik shut his eyes painfully. "Hello, Reyer."

He raised his glass to them. "'Evening, everyone. Hello, Ms. Daaé, I remember you. The bass incident. Are you the one who dragged this curmudgeon out of his burrow? If so, you need to do it more often."

Reyer took her hand and patted it, to Erik's annoyance, as Christine bestowed a dazzling smile on the music instructor. "Hello, Dr. Reyer. It's nice to see you again. And no, he asked me."

Reyer raised both eyebrows this time. "Did he now. Well well, there's hope for the boy yet. Carry on." He raised the glass at the table in salute and left.

Meg dissolved into giggles. "Who was that?"

Erik sighed, resuming his seat. "Jules Reyer, from the music department. A co-worker once. He has the most aggravatingly paternalistic attitude toward everyone in the department, students and faculty alike."

Christine reached for his hand under the table, a sweet pressure against his cold fingers. "I agree with him...we should do this more often," she said softly, and he returned the pressure. Did she mean it?

The band transitioned into a slow dance, and Brian simply gathered Meg into his arms and escorted her to the dance floor. She leaned her head on his chest, eyes shut, and he dropped a soft kiss on her blond curls. Christine smiled, watching them.

"I'm glad they're finally getting married. They're so right for each other."

Erik raised his good eyebrow and took a needed sip of his scotch. "What's taken so long?"

"I'm not sure. He'd asked her at least four times that I know of. She finally said yes." Her eyes followed the couples on the dance floor wistfully.

"Would you care to dance again with me?" The words were out of his mouth before he had time to think. Christine looked up at him, surprised, then squeezed his fingers, her smile radiant. It took his breath away.

"Yes."

She fit into his arms so naturally, one arm around his waist and the other on his shoulder. Erik rested a hand on her hip and wrapped the other around her, pulling her close. After a minute he felt her sigh, and her cheek came to rest on his shoulder. He held her gently, reveling in the feel of her soft curves against the hard planes and angles of his body. Leg be damned; the song could go on for hours for all he cared.

Christine smoothed the fine wool fabric of his jacket under her hand, relaxing into the hypnotic sway and press of his arms. Under her cheek his heart beat with a rapid pattern, and she shut her eyes.

Reluctantly, Christine moved away from him as the music ended. "That was marvelous. We should do it again."

"Agreed."

Two more of the graduate students, including the red-haired young man, Kevin, performed their pieces to cheers and applause, then another student took the microphone, his young but strong tenor assuring them "It don't mean a thing if you ain't got that swing." As he left the stage one of the senior music students emerged from the sidelines, sitting at the piano and cracking his knuckles. Erik stiffened beside her, his hand tightening on her own. Christine turned slightly. "Your song?"

"Yes."

The young man adjusted the piano bench and nodded to the band, then launched full on into the piece, his hands dancing across the keys. Beside him the band's light accompaniment provided a web of sound, echoing and reflecting the central theme of the music. Erik barely breathed, watching the student perform. "He's doing it for a recital piece and wanted something unknown. Reyer talked him into contacting me, and talked me into writing it," he murmured. The applause was valid and profuse as the young man stood and bowed, grinning in Erik's direction. "It will be published next month."

"Erik! I'm so proud of you!" The delight shining in her eyes made his heart race.

An hour and a half later found them saying goodnight, with Erik steadily mentally cursing the weak leg that had cost him a third dance with Christine. She'd spun around one other time with Brian, while Meg had sat fanning herself and chattering. He was certainly very different from any man her friend had ever expressed an interest in, but his eyes followed Christine around the floor with a look of almost hunger. Clearly he was enamored of her friend, and if she knew Christine, the feeling was mutual. That soft, wistful look she'd worn while dancing with him was very telling, and Meg was quite looking forward to an extended gossip session with her dearest, oldest companion.

* * *

It was a brilliant starry night, achingly cold and clear. The dashboard lights gave the interior a soft glow, and she settled gratefully on the warm leather seats. The ride home was peaceful, silent save for the crunch of tires on snow.

He glanced over at her face when they paused at the light. "Christine. The evening is still young. Shall I take you home or would you like to come by my house for a while?"

She laughed softly. "I'd love to. We never got our second slow dance tonight."

"Very true," he murmured, and didn't dare look at her.

They entered the kitchen through the garage. Christine set down her purse and he came to stand behind her, long fingers brushing her neck as Erik helped her remove her coat. She turned in his arms and raised her face, but he stepped back.

"Christine…thank you for a wonderful evening. I can't think of anyone I would have rather spent it with." Lightly, he touched her cheek. "It meant a lot to me."

"Any time, Erik," she said softly.

The tension coiled in his body and he busied himself with putting their coats away. "Would you like something to drink? Or eat?"

"Something hot, I think…decaf tea?"

"Sounds good. There's some in the cabinet. Help yourself." She reached for the boxes and then leaned against the counter studying him as Erik moved quickly around the room, filling a kettle and setting out sugar and milk.

He paused, feeling the edge of the prosthetic loosening. "Christine," he said awkwardly, "I need to deal with this. Make yourself at home…I'll be back in a few minutes." Keeping one hand on his face, Erik disappeared down the hallway. With a rueful sigh, she turned her attention to the mugs.

Erik hung the black jacket across the end of his bed, removed the tie, and headed to the bathroom. He pressed the warm wet cloth against his face, feeling the edges moisten and the glue begin to turn slimy, then carefully lifted the thin edges of the silicon prosthetic, saving as much of the expensive custom-made piece as possible. The harsh light above the mirror revealed a ghastly mess below of gristle, garish color, and twisted livid scars, now further irritated from the glue. Erik averted his eyes and stoically began to cleanse away the remaining clinging bits of adhesive, avoiding looking directly at the cavernous mess as much as possible.

From the front of the house he could hear the teakettle whistle, stop, and then Christine's sweet voice singing to herself as she moved about the kitchen. What chance did he truly have with her? Tonight her eyes looked on him with admiration, interest, even, dare he think it, attraction. Once he removed the mask those warm thoughts would be dashed. He'd seen the pity and horror in her eyes months ago…he could not bear it a second time, and yet he could not wear the mask constantly, either. His face was sore from repeated days of wearing the prosthetic and desperately needed to air, but tonight would not be the night. Erik reached for the white plastic and carefully tied the elastic strings in place, wincing at the pressure against his damaged flesh. Grimly, he returned to the kitchen.

She sensed his change of mood almost instantly. Gone was the relaxed, smiling man, in his place was the Erik she knew well, cynical, dark, and silent. She pushed the other mug toward him. "Just the way you like it," she smiled. "How about some music?" He nodded.

"The piano, or...?"

Christine tilted her head with a slow smile. "You owe me a dance, sir, and I'll not let you get out of it so easily."

Wordlessly, he held out a a hand and Christine followed Erik down the stairs to the lower house level. He snapped off the security lights, allowing only the stars to illuminate the large, open room.

"How serious were you about that second slow dance?" he asked lightly, not looking at her.

"Very." Her voice was soft, full of promise. Dry-mouthed with anticipation, he opened the cabinet doors of the massive stereo system and selected a CD, turning the volume low. Christine left her empty mug and moved willingly toward him. Erik wrapped both arms around her, resting them on her hips, and leaned his good cheek against her head. She curled one hand against his shirt, the other draped along his neck and shoulders. In silence, they moved slowly to the music, swaying together, pressed against one another.

He lifted her into his arms and settled them both on the leather sofa as the song ended. With a sigh, Christine nestled her head on his shoulder, relaxed, and toed off her shoes. Without the security lights, the long sloping backyard took on a soft moonlit glow, sparkling off the frosted grass. She breathed in his scent and shut her eyes in pleasure.

Erik's hands were cool on her skin, gliding up her bare leg and pulling her close. "Christine," he murmured, his voice husky, "if I wanted to kiss you, would you mind?"

In answer, she raised her face toward his, and he inclined his head, his lips lightly, gently skimming over hers. Christine moved her right hand from where it lay along his back, and tentatively caressed the back of his neck and hair, feeling him shiver. Thin fingers raised her face again, and this time the kiss was deeper, more assured.

He wrapped his long arms around her, leaning his cheek against her hair, content to simply hold this woman close, unwilling to risk anything further. Christine rested her left hand against his chest, slowly stroking little circles over his heart, an intimate gesture. Despite his calm demeanor, she could feel his heart beating rapidly beneath her palm. Slowly her hand moved upward and deftly unbuttoned the top button on his dress shirt, then the next and the next. She slid her hand under the fabric, fingers running over his collarbone and chest, feeling the rapid hammering of his heart.

"Christine, Christine, what are you doing?" he murmured as she stroked his chest.

"Touching you," she whispered. "Do you mind?"

He drew a shuddering breath. "No…" He brushed her forehead with his lips. "But if you keep that up I can't guarantee I will be able to keep my own hands to myself."

"Oh….darn." She trailed her lips along the hollow, stubbled curve of his throat and heard his breath catch. One long bony hand rose from where it had been resting on her leg and slowly, lazily stroked her back, making her shiver. His hand curved around her neck, idly caressing the side of her throat and curve of jaw, then raised her face so he could kiss her again. His kiss was slowly tantalizing, gently biting and pulling at her lower lip, his tongue teasing, and she responded, opening to him, kissing him back. His hand cupped the back of her head, running through her hair, then dropped to her thigh, his thumb slowly stroking her hipbone. Inside his shirt, her hand moved upwards, curving around his chest. He did not see her frown as her questing fingers encountered a raised line of scarring. Slowly Christine withdrew her hand and unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, pulling it slightly loose from his trousers and pushing it open, revealing his pale, bony chest. She leaned forward, kissing his sternum, and he tensed under her, sucking in a long breath and groaning.

"You don't know what you're doing to me." His voice was low, rough. The hand caressing her hip rose up her side, long fingers brushing the side of her breast, his thumb skimming her collarbone, then moving lower, a pleasant friction against her flesh.

"Maybe what you're doing to me?" she breathed. Slowly, carefully, in the dim light, Christine ran her hand along the bare flesh of his torso. Multiple lines, raised and twisted. Scar tissue. Odd areas, the skin thickened or slicker. Burns? Beneath her hands, Erik stilled, freezing as he realized what she was doing, and leaned his forehead against her own, his breathing shaky and shallow.

"Christine," he whispered tiredly, "please…don't." For a moment he'd been able to forget, had been a man in her arms, desired and desiring, feeling that pulsing thrum of blood and heat and adrenaline…and now he was numb, frozen, as she touched him. He held very still, flinching occasionally as her hands gently explored the torn mess that was his back and chest.

He was scarred, had been injured, badly so, on his body as well as his face. Why had she not realized this before? She could feel the tension in him under her hands, his breath unsteady, as he held himself apart from her, and knew her actions would determine how this night would end.

Christine raised her head, forcing him to look at her, as her arms wrapped tightly around him and held him. "Kiss me," she whispered, and he shut his eyes, reaching for her desperately, not wanting to look lest he see pity or revulsion in her eyes.

"Stay with me tonight," he whispered. "I would not ask anything of you." Where once there had been desire, hot and urgent, now there was an entirely different kind of need he was asking her to fulfill, and she shivered with the intensity of the plea.

"I don't have anything with me," she said softly.

"You can borrow a shirt to sleep in," he said against her hair. "I just want to hold you, if that's ok?"

She snuggled against him. "Yes."

* * *

They moved about the house together, checking locks, turning out lights, and setting the alarm system. She followed him down the hall, standing awkwardly while he took a set of clean towels from the linens cabinet and entered his bedroom. Like the rest of his home, it was sparsely furnished; a high bed with a bench at the foot, nightstands, and a dresser made up the only furniture. He hadn't made the bed earlier, but the covers had been hastily pulled up at some point, and a single lamp cast a soft warm glow in the corner. A pair of black drawstring sleep pants lay cast across the end of the bed, his tie and black jacket hung from a chair. Erik extracted a blue t-shirt from a drawer and handed it to her. "It's clean and should fit," he said, looking away. "Let me get you a toothbrush." He darted past her into the master bathroom and left a new toothbrush and sample tube of toothpaste on the counter, the kind one got from the dentist.

She clutched the t-shirt to her chest and shut the door. How _did_ people do this so casually? They were both clearly nervous. Forcing herself to breath more slowly Christine washed her face, brushed her teeth, and changed into the t-shirt. He was so tall the shirt easily came down past her hips and worked quite well as a soft nightgown. Quietly Christine opened the bathroom door.

Erik stood across the room, sleep pants hanging low on his lean hips. Christine caught her breath…the pale skin of his back was crisscrossed with lines and deep scars. He was rummaging through the drawer and quickly donned another t-shirt. Perhaps he did not wear one to sleep but was doing so for her sake.

He looked up as she stepped out of the bathroom, a look passing across his face too quickly for her to identify. Apprehension? Disbelief? Hope? Silently she crossed the room and he met her, pulling her into his arms, and they stood holding each other, not speaking. "Shall we?" he said softly, after a minute, and she nodded.

The bed had one of those woolly padded mattress toppers, lovely thick and warm, and probably easier on his body, she realized. He reached up, turning off the light. They lay there awkwardly, then Christine scooted over and he opened his arms. She curved her body next to him, her head on his shoulder, and he cautiously moved one arm around her, his heart racing under her ear. "Thank you," he said quietly in the darkness. "Goodnight, Christine."

"Erik…"

"Yes," he said softly.

"You don't…do you sleep with your mask on?" she said in a rush.

There was a long silence. "No," he said, "but you are here and…"

"It's ok," she whispered. "You don't have to leave it on. I can imagine it's uncomfortable."

He shifted, withdrawing into himself. "I do have a sleep mask…it's padded so it doesn't hurt if I roll over. But it's hot and looks like something out of a horror movie and I didn't want you to wake up and…get startled. I don't normally wear anything. On my face, that is," he amended as she started giggling, and he smiled despite himself, as the tension evaporated. "If you're sure you don't mind…"

"It's fine," she said softly. "You need to do whatever makes you comfortable."

He smiled dryly to himself. That would not be happening tonight. Erik sat up and lifted the strings from the back of his head, releasing the pressure of the mask against his damaged flesh and placing it carefully on the nightstand. To his relief, Christine snuggled back into his arms.

"Goodnight," she whispered, and he kissed her temple, grateful for the darkness.

"Sleep well."

* * *

She awoke in the depths of night, completely disoriented, then memory came rushing back. Erik's house. His bedroom was utterly dark, no lights outside save for the moon, thin slivers one shade lighter than the blinds. Erik lay beside her, his chest to her back, one long arm draped over her hip. Slowly Christine turned to lie on her back. His soft breath blew gently against her throat, his hand now lay on her bare stomach, for the t-shirt had ridden up in the night. It was suddenly erotic, and she took a deep breath, forcing those thoughts away. She was warm, comfortable, the masculine scent of him pleasant, familiar.

He'd wanted her last night, she was sure of it, had noted the evidence though he'd said nothing. That was fine, she was fine…rushing into a physical relationship was almost always a bad idea. But what kind of a lover would he be, she wondered hazily. Hopefully she'd find out. Christine covered his hand with her own and drifted back to sleep.

The unfamiliar sensation of a woman in his bed brought Erik to an abrupt awakening. Christine lay curled toward him, in his arms, bare legs tangled with his, her hair tickling his throat, and soft breasts pressed against his chest. The subtle scent of her filled his senses and he was suddenly hard, aching for her, and gritted his teeth, willing the urge to subside. Christine sighed in her sleep and ran her hand across his hip and back, and he thought he might die right there from a lack of air and longing.

So many things he would never be able to tell her. Carla had frequently screamed at him, if he reached his release first during the times they were intimate together, that he was only interested in his own pleasure and left her unsatisfied, no matter what, to the point he began to have trouble performing at all and began to avoid their bed. He supposed it was his fault she'd taken a lover, but there had come a time when he couldn't bear to be intimate with her. Better to endure a cold marriage than the endless fighting.

He was unprepared for this situation, desperate and eager as an untried youth, yet fearful. Christine was kind and seemed to care for him, with more gentleness in her touches, her smiles, her voice than Carla had ever had, even in the initial heady days of their relationship. Christine was more than old enough to know her own mind…and she seemed interested in him, but it would take so little to ruin everything.

Sleepy deep blue eyes opened and smiled as she snuggled against him, a frisson that rubbed her body against his in a delightful, albeit dangerous way. What little blood remained in his body seemed to rush directly to his groin, and he willed self-control. Christine kissed his throat and jaw, and he leaned over to claim her lips. Christine's eyes had gone smoky with desire, and she wound her arms around his back, her hands urging him above her. Erik shifted uncomfortably.

"Oh," her eyes widened, feeling his taut, heated flesh pressing against her stomach. "Good morning to you, too." She smiled impishly and pulled his head down, kissing him languidly, stroking his back. Erik angled his leg between her thighs, hip pressing against her. A slight groan escaped his lips.

Feverishly he reached down and ran his hand along her hip, pushing the shirt up to the curve of her waist. "Tell me to stop if you…"

She hooked thumbs under his t-shirt and pulled it upwards. Erik shrugged it off and slowly began to push up her shirt. He moved against her, a slight rhythmic rocking that pressed his leg between hers and a throbbing hardness against her stomach. Her hips rose against him and he shuddered.

Christine ran her hands up his back, caressing the flayed skin. "Does it hurt when I touch you?" she asked softly.

Erik shook his head. "No. Only a deep pressure hurts anymore. It's…I can't really feel anything; it's mostly numb."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "It must have been awful."

"It was." He was keeping his face turned from her and she shut her eyes, grateful for the near-total darkness. _It's just his face, Christine…you can handle this. Don't be a child._ They were nearly at the point of no return. He'd stop if she asked, she knew, but did she want to? Her body clearly didn't, that heated response and coiling tension inside wanted only one sweet release. But Erik…this was not a game to be played lightly. He was not the type of man for casual encounters.

* * *

Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!


	25. Chapter 25 Misapprehensions

**A/N—** My apologies for this update taking forever. I had a hand injury roughly three months ago that prevented me from doing much of anything on the keyboard (or much of anything with that hand at all, tbh). It's not healed yet but definitely very much better. My muse promptly fled for a more agreeable situation, and between that and vacations I have had a very hard time getting back into the writing end of things!

A huge shout-out goes to to klausscrimshaw on Tumblr for her fan art for this story! I am beyond honored! Artists that create art based on writers' stories are a true gift and deeply appreciated!

Now, if you remember, we'd left our couple together on a wintery night, in a potentially agreeable situation...

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chp 25 Misapprehensions

2016, 2017, 2018

.

Her hands on his hated body were balm to his soul, caressing, sending tremors into a tightening spiral of hazy lust. Outside, the brittle clatter of ice pellets against the window was muffled by the heavy curtains. Erik was bitterly grateful for the darkness concealing the worst of his disfigured flesh, but hiding her own sweet curves. He was achingly hard and eager to lose himself in her warmth...and hopefully not disappoint her in the process. It had been a very long time.

Christine ran her hands softly up his back, cupping his prominent shoulder blades before pulling him closer and kissing him, her soft lips slanting against his and teasing with the tip of her tongue. His hand moved under her shirt, fingers and thumb stroking, and she gasped into his mouth. Slowly her hands loosened from his back, one hand running through his dark hair and the other trailing down the edge of the undamaged side of his face, as he bent his head, lips and teeth skimming her flesh and kissed her in the crook between throat and shoulder, sliding his hand up between her legs.

Beneath his exploring touch Christine suddenly stiffened, then twisted beneath him, jerking away, her breath coming in shaking pants. _His face_. His bare, unmasked face. Erik reared back, his ardor freezing. Christine had pulled back as if burned, tucked into herself and staring past him with wide, horrified eyes. _She'd forgotten she was in bed with a monster._ He rolled away, fists clenched, glaring at the ceiling.

"Christine?" he gritted out, baffled and angry, but she shook her head, hands convulsively tugging the sheet up around her shoulders. He lowered his voice and reached toward her but she flinched and he withdrew, the heavy ache of disappointment and physical discomfort settling across his body.

"I'm sorry," she choked out, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping arms around them. "I didn't mean..." She was unable to look at him. Erik rose slowly from the bed, forcing himself to breathe deeply.

"Christine...I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry. If it's my...face, my body...I can't do anything about that. I thought you...I thought maybe..."

"It's not that!"

"If it's not my face then what is it?" he snapped, anger rising off of him in waves, but she sat miserably silent, words whirling but stuck, shuddering as memories rose to the surface.

"I..."

"Yes?" he prodded impatiently.

"I'm sorry...I just can't...I can't. I'm sorry. I'll leave….I'm going home," she choked, and belatedly remembered that they had driven together earlier. "I'll call a cab."

His shoulders stiffened. "You'll do no such thing. It's an icy mess out there and I won't have you endangering your life on my account." He grabbed the mask and his discarded shirt. "I'm sorry my presence is so distasteful to you," he said bitterly. "You can have the bed; I'll sleep on the couch." He slammed the door behind him.

The angry tread of his uneven footsteps faded down the hall and Christine buried her face in her hands. It had gone wrong so quickly. She should go after him, try to explain. But how could she, when she hadn't even been able to tell Meg?

* * *

Christine had dreaded the next morning but gone out to the kitchen as soon as she'd heard movement. Erik looked haggard, avoiding her eyes, as if he had not slept. She certainly hadn't. In silence he poured a cup of coffee and pushed it across the counter.

She took it, the welcome warmth spreading through icy fingers, and tried. "Erik...I'm sorry, about last night. I wasn't trying to lead you on...it wasn't you."

"Then what," he said flatly, still staring out the window.

She shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it. Just...please believe me. It wasn't you."

He took a long measured sip of coffee. "You'll forgive me if I find that difficult to believe." He set down the nearly untouched mug. "Get your things. I'll take you back."

They rode in silence to her house. By the time she had unlocked the door he was gone, the Mercedes rounding the corner by the mailboxes, the crunch of tires on snow fading with the early morning light. She'd closed the door behind her and dissolved into tears.

That had been her last contact with him.

She turned the corner and winced. The bicycle sagged against the rack, half-buried in dirty snow, one wheel missing, the other bent, vandalized, the seat in shreds. Since the first day of graduate school the frame had been chained to the Engineering North rack, rusting and forgotten. Tears prickled her eyes and Christine wiped them angrily away with the back of her mitten. Poor thing. It was so damned sad, discarded and forgotten by everyone.

 _God, you're pathetic,_ her inner voice sneered. _Feeling sorry for an unwanted piece of junk._ _Get your act together, girl._

She hitched the backpack up on her shoulder and head down, trudged on through the press of students on the walkway by the Union. Maybe there would be time to get a cup of coffee before class. The jostle of bodies felt hostile today, more than the usual slipping on ice and accidental thump of shoulders or bags. _It's your imagination,_ she told herself firmly, but the creeping exhaustion lent a grey tint to the world.

She hadn't been sleeping well lately, her dreams shadowy echoes of the past. It didn't take a psychologist to know what was wrong—she'd royally screwed things up with Erik and had no idea how to solve them. Classes were intense and winter had long since lost its allure. Tempers were short, and she'd not heard from her school friends since the ski trip. It was a busy time of year in the curriculum, she remembered, the big push before the curse of state-mandated testing, but the dreary unending winter made it far easier to feel sorry for herself.

Loneliness sucked.

The low point of the weeks since that ruined night had been Valentine's Day. The stores were filled with chocolates and flowers, the university paper with advertisements for "dinner for two." Across campus happy couples squealed and kissed and clutched stuffed animals and balloons, flowers, and heart-shaped boxes. There had even been a Lover's Ball in the Union.

She'd been single last year too, but somehow it hadn't felt so miserable. The school PTO had placed flowers on every desk and the Student Council had sold ridiculously big colorful rainbow lollipops as a fund raiser. Many of her Junior High students had still been young enough to send their favorite teachers a note and candy. This year there had been nothing.

 _That's your own fault too, idiot._

She couldn't burden Meg with her problems; her best friend was walking a tightrope between rehearsals and balancing the demands of two families' wedding expectations. Both Meg and Brian had wanted something simple; both mothers were unsheathing their claws. Bryan was an only child, and the first wedding in the Giry family in a generation was rapidly becoming an Occasion. Meg had sounded exhausted and on the verge of tears when they'd last spoken.

Christine took one look at the lines stretching around the corner from the Cowboy Coffee and gave up. She pushed back out the heavy doors into the cold, tucking her chin down into her scarf. Just four more days until the Presidents' Day break.

* * *

A _minor fourth yes, but the next...an open...something…_ He laid the violin atop the piano and thrust the bench back, large hands easily spanning the octaves as the opening notes rippled out.

The project had intrigued him from the start; a request for a violin solo. The story too had captured his interest—a war-torn city, lovers separated, a man who came near the barricades at night to play so his lover would know he still lived. Erik had chosen not to read the ending of the draft, suspecting the man might not survive his conscription. The words _prison camp_ had flashed out from a page and he'd closed the script.

The violin solo would become the overall theme of the movie. The solo itself had been surprisingly easy—a soft plaintive tune that echoed of folklore and simpler times, now tinged with sorrow. The orchestral accompaniment was proving somewhat more difficult in its need to transition to a sweeping overture. He could hear it in his mind, but as always, the difficulty lay in capturing those elusive notes.

He began again.

"If I hear that passage one more time I may throw something," Khan said mildly, leaning in the doorway.

Erik briefly raised his head to glare at the man as he took a sip of coffee. "I can't find the key for the transition." He tossed the pencil aside and snarled in irritation as it rolled to the floor.

"You can't even find the lock at this point." Khan held up a hand. "A joke, my friend. Take a break from it."

"I have a deadline, Khan. It's my chance to get back into the industry, maybe have something to offer again."

"Why don't you use that expensive program? What's it called? SongMaster or something?"

"ConcertMaster. And I have to use the keyboard downstairs. Which I cannot do until I know what the notes _are_."

The doctor ambled over and dropped onto the long leather couch, watching his friend appraisingly. Erik looked like hell, his dark hair disheveled and somehow even more gaunt. There was a faint rusty streak on the keyboard. Frowning, he rose. The violin lay on top of the somber black grand amidst sheets of scribbled staff paper, the bow frizzled. Khan reached down and gently turned over his friend's hand, the fingertips in ribbons from the strings, and scowled as he snatched it away.

"Goddammit, Erik."

"Leave me alone, Khan."

"You need to rest."

"I can't sleep. Every time I look at the bed she's there."

"Then sleep on the couch," he said sharply. "Erik, you're burning yourself out."

"Would you rather I drank? Or tried some other vice?"

"I can prescribe you some sleeping pills."

"We both know how well that worked out last time."

Khan made an exasperated noise and returned to the couch. "So tell me how this time is going to end."

"This time Erik is going to focus on his music and ignore the rest of the world."

* * *

Bored, he was so bored, pacing restlessly about the green room and listening to the audio from the stage, waiting to make his grand entrance, but they were running through that scene _again_. What was this, kindergarten? He'd had his lines, his movements, his songs down cold for weeks now. He was a professional, even if they weren't, and if that nibble of inquiry from San Francisco became a bite, he was out of this frozen hellhole.

They should have been going together, him and Carla. They'd even planned professional name changes, Carlotta for her, not Carla, like some Midwestern ditz who worked at a truck stop. She'd hated her name. They'd have been gone by now, except for _her,_ screwing up their plans.

The music started over and impatiently he flung himself into one of the vinyl chairs next to the usual stack of glossy theatrical publications— _Light and Sound, Opera Today, Music World-_ and thumbed through one. Jobs were usually in the back. Anything was better than this. He couldn't stand the thought of another summer of interns, even if they were so very young and fresh.

 _Internships, scholarships, where were the auditions?_

Had he not been thinking of Carla, he'd probably not have noticed the name but there it was, leaping out from the print, ugly as he was. Scholarship banquet. Dr. Erik Martin. He'd tutored some student who'd won an award at some godforsaken university. He stared at the article with burning eyes. Erik Martin, cause of all of his problems, and a threat to the future.

He noted the city.

* * *

Her longed-for restful weekend began with a phone buzzing impatiently on the beside table around 0200. Groggily, she reached for it, trying to focus on the screen. Raoul?

"Hello?"

"Charles," the voice said briskly, "I've found those papers you wanted. I can drop them by in the afternoon or email them earlier if you need."

"Raoul...Raoul...this is Christine. You've got the wrong number," she said gently.

There was a stricken pause. "Oh Christ. Christine? Hell. I'm sorry, Chris."

"It's fine. How are you?" Christine sat up in bed, pulling the covers closer.

"What time is it there? Were you asleep? Oh my god, I'm so sorry…I didn't realize it was this late." She could almost visualize him dragging a hand through his wheat-blond hair.

"Raoul? What's wrong?"

"Oh god, everything. Just everything. My dad had another attack and died two nights back, my mother had a breakdown—she's in the hospital—and my uncle, Mom's brother, is making a play for control of the company. Phil's afraid the Board is going to listen to him. God, it's such a mess."

"I'm so sorry, Raoul," she said with genuine sympathy. "Can I do anything? Do you want me to come for the funeral?"

"Do you mind? Would you please? I'd be eternally grateful. But can you leave tomorrow? I know it's your long weekend and all, but I can send you an airline ticket and you can stay here. It won't cost you anything…and I'd like to have someone around that I know isn't going to stab me in the back," he said bitterly.

"Yes, of course I'll be there. And yes, tomorrow's fine. Just let me know."

"Thanks, Chris…you're a gem. I'll be in touch…so sorry to wake you up. I'm not thinking very well."

"It's ok. 'Night." He hung up and she huddled back down under the covers, thoughts whirling. She could easily fly out; it would be only a few days. Maybe Meg could drop her off. No one here would miss her.

She turned over, toes seeking the warmest spot in the bottom of the bed. A moment later the phone's screen went dark, plunging the room into cold shadows. Truly, no one would miss her. There had been no word from Erik, and she had no idea how to approach him.

An e-ticket was waiting in her in-box the next morning, for a flight out late that afternoon from the regional airport. She had little time to pack and make the drive into the city. It was terribly short notice, but poor Raoul really had sounded frazzled. Over breakfast she made a quick list of things to do—notify Task Rabbit, ask Meg if she could leave the car at the apartment—grateful to have no major homework or projects over the break.

Three hours later she was on her way with Meg waiting to meet her for a late lunch. She'd brought only one bag, containing the despised funeral dress and enough mix-and-match clothing for a couple days. Beyond that she'd have to do laundry or go shopping, in a pinch. Realistically, she'd probably head back home. There was nothing she could do for Raoul beyond moral support, and she knew only too well from experience that having people hanging around after a funeral could get irritating when one just wanted to be left alone to have a good cry and get things done.

It was not until she was nearly to the city that Christine realized she did not have her mobile phone and it was far too late to return for it. She spent several minutes berating herself for doing something so stupid. Well, so be it. She'd manage, somehow.

Lying on her bathroom counter, still plugged into the charger, the phone rang again.

* * *

 _"No I can't get it out of my head...now my whole world is gone for dead...and I can't get it out of my head, oh no, oh no..."_

Savagely he leaned over to swipe at the channel select button on the dashboard. Normally Erik enjoyed ELO, and the 70's station on Sirius XM Radio in general, but the words were a bit too close for comfort. She wouldn't leave his head, his thoughts.

In the weeks since that wretched evening he'd analyzed the night from every conceivable angle. Granted, the sweet pressure of her lips against his and her hands on his body had somewhat clouded his normal reserve, but he couldn't think of anything he'd done to cause such a disasterous finale to what should have been ending pressed tightly together in waves of pleasure and slick with sweat...curled together afterwards in sleepy satisfaction.

He'd let his thoughts run away again.

 _You're making a mistake by not calling her and at least trying to figure out what's going on._ Well, that was damned difficult to do when she wouldn't picked up the damned phone.

Erik tried and failed to rationalize the silence. Swallowing his pride and tired of Khan's paternal advice, he'd called three days ago with an excuse of a concert at the university, but the phone had rung without an answer. He'd been forced to assume she'd been unavailable, but she'd not returned the second call either. Possibly Christine was ignoring him, but that didn't seem her _modus operandi_.

Telling himself he was simply checking, Erik had even driven by her apartment. Her car was gone, the snow on her steps and front porch untouched and deep.

 _Where was she?_ He massaged his throbbing temples.

* * *

"You didn't need to come all the way out here to get me." Christine smiled up into Raoul's tired blue eyes as he awkwardly hugged her around the heavy coat and purse. He leaned in to kiss her but Christine turned her head at the last minute, glancing toward the luggage carousel which had lurched into motion, and his kiss landed on her cheek.

"No, it's all right," he said. "I needed to get out of the house for a while."

"That bad?"

"Yeah." He pulled her bag from the carousel and began walking toward the sliding glass doors. "Mom's a mess, Philippe is grim, and I'm running all the stupid errands. Not that you're a stupid errand. Christ, I didn't mean that. Anyway, I was glad to get away for a bit. You're a welcome sight, Miss Christine." He smiled faintly at her.

A blast of cold air struck them and he frowned. "Why don't you wait here…I'll get the car, ok?" She nodded, pulling up her collar and tightening her scarf, stepping back inside the airlock.

She let him ramble as they drove through the city and out onto the bumpy rural roads leading back to the Chagny estate, sliding occasionally in the mud and snow. Thank heavens for tire chains. His mother was back home, he said, and the sister had flown in. "She's treating the whole thing as a major inconvenience," Raoul glared at the road, knuckles white on the steering wheel. "As if Dad died just to screw with her wedding plans." Christine nodded with sympathy.

"Will your other sister be there?"

"Émilie? Not unless that loser she lives with thinks there's anything in it for them," he said bitterly. "My father wrote her out of the will when she ran off, years ago."

"Oh." Christine searched for something to say. "Where does she live?"

"Sedona, last we heard. She went down there over a summer break to 'find herself' and apparently got lost. Met this loser guy and moved in with him. She does the 'spiritual quest' thing, all very New Age vegan artsy-fartsy, pottery lumps, beads and crystals stuff. Money is the root of all evil, capitalism is oppressor of the masses. That doesn't stop her from writing my father and demanding her share of the inheritance. Or didn't. If she shows up it will be hell."

They pulled in under the portico. A dozen other cars were parked down the long driveway. Raoul grimaced. "Brace yourself."

* * *

Lying in the wide bed that evening in the unfamiliar room, Christine stared at the dim ceiling above. Dinner had been stressful. Raoul's uncle Alan had been smoothly helpful, sympathetically patting his sister's hand and offering advice to both boys. Philippe's mouth had tightened but his voice was level, thanking the man for his proposals and suggestions. Raoul had alternated between deflecting his uncle's comments and keeping Elle-Louise distracted. She'd been grateful when the meal was over and could make polite excuses to leave the family room.

Now the rush to depart, her forgotten phone, the raised voices downstairs, and Raoul's tight face and miserable voice, were all conspiring to keep her from sleep. Gradually her thoughts drifted back to that evening, the feel of Erik's weight pressing her into the mattress, the long scarred body she'd barely caught a glimpse of in the music room hard against her, his thin cool lips warming against her own, his hair so soft under her fingers. He had felt good; more than good, actually, something she could easily get used to. She had not seen his face; it had been utterly dark in the bedroom, but her hands had found more scarring, ridged patches of tissue along his back and torso. What pain he must have suffered, but he seemed healthy enough now.

And she'd screwed it up so badly. Would he ever trust her enough to give her another chance? Could she handle it if he did?

God, here she was in another man's house, trying her best to support him through an insufferably difficult time, and lusting after a man who probably was sound asleep, not thinking of her at all. Christine rolled over irritably and punched the pillow, wadding it into a more comfortable shape. Time to force herself to get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a stressful mess.

* * *

He sank lower along the counter, earning a definite glare from the bar owner. Joseph Buquet didn't care, this would be his last drink for the night. He was out of money, out of a job, out of options. Damn the man anyhow. It wasn't his fault the scrim was torn, now, was it? Or the flies improperly weighted? Yet somehow it was always his fault, his responsibility. Last Friday had been his final day on the job after getting sacked again. He had nothing saved up…rent was so expensive. He had essentially been blacklisted from every community theater, university program, and school department in the region. These people all knew each other and talked behind his back. It wasn't fair.

If only that little bitch had kept her mouth shut. It was just a bit of role-play, just a bit of fun to spice things up. She'd been into it before, too, getting off on being chased by a man in a mask and hat. He'd done a good job this time with the Mr. Hyde routine, a waste of time since he hadn't even gotten laid. Joseph took another drink. He could have been an actor had things gone differently years ago.

But neither of them had seen the scrim, and she'd screamed as he'd caught her and fallen right through it, tearing a huge hole. The night security guy had shown up and she'd thrown him under the bus. It was the last excuse Firman had needed.

He needed money, and soon.

The phone rang.

* * *

In any other family Christine would have kept herself out of the way and tried to help out, but a catering service had been installed at some point during the day. They'd returned from the burial and she'd slipped into the kitchen to find a black-smocked set of efficient strangers laying out drinks and a buffet service, literally the funeral-baked meats on a scale she'd never seen. Apparently the rich and famous didn't bring casseroles.

The funeral had been held at an enormous Catholic Church, mourners arriving by the dozens. Christine had refused a seat with the family and ducked into a pew mid-way down the aisle, clutching the service program and trying to be invisible. Elle-Louise and Amy had worn designer black, chic ensembles that included gloves and tiny hats with veils. Philippe and Raoul had worn somber dark suits, looking tired and strained. Uncomfortable men and women who surely were business associates or employees sat toward the back of the sanctuary, leaving a space between themselves and the mourning family. The service dragged on.

Though she'd wished to avoid the burial, Raoul had asked her to attend for his sake. The wind was biting, small flurries of dry snow swirling about, and her legs quickly grew numb. Christine had ignored the curious looks discretely aimed her direction and tucked her fingers further back in the crook of Raoul's arm for warmth. He'd said little for the past hour, staring ahead with a grim jaw and lines of exhaustion at his eyes. The priest finished his solemn prayer and slowly each family member stepped forward to sprinkle a handful of earth into the gaping hole. Philippe had kept one arm around his mother, supporting her as she stumbled forward. Raoul had shot her one agonized glance then stepped forward to assist, leaving Christine to walk back to the car alone. Secretly relieved, she was glad to not be with the family.

Émilie and her partner had been at the house on their return, and had promptly fallen into a shouting match with Elle-Louise. Philippe, looking furious and exasperated, attempted to intervene and have them at least take it out of the public view. Amy sank onto a chair and alternated hysterical crying with holding court as guests came by to offer condolences. Philippe, dragging a hand through his thinning dark hair, returned to the room and pulled Raoul aside to talk with certain of the guests, and Christine, feeling horribly out of place, seized the opportunity to slip from the room and head upstairs and away from the family drama.

The flight out early Monday morning felt more like an escape than anything. Realistically, she shouldn't have even come. There had been one additional bit of awkwardness, a meeting with Raoul that morning as she'd waited outside for the man—Servant? Butler? Aide-de-camp?-to bring down her suitcase to the waiting shuttle. She leaned her head against the backrest, unwillingly remembering.

" _Chris, please."_

 _She pushed back her hair impatiently. He was so earnest, standing there in the snow, his blue eyes pained. She tried again, patting him gently on the arm. "Raoul, I'm not who you need. You're upset and hurting right now, and I don't want to make it worse, but I can't. We're not a bit alike; it would never work."_

 _He seized her arm in his gloved hands. "We don't have to be alike. Opposites attract, and all that."_

 _She pulled her arm gently free. "But we'd be bored. You need someone for this life, someone who can give you half a dozen kids to go skiing with, and ride horses, and raise cattle, to go to all those county fairs and gymkhanas with. That's not me. Besides," she tried some levity, "I'm a teacher—I already have plenty of kids."_

" _But you wouldn't need to keep teaching! You wouldn't need to work at all."_

 _Christine fought down the trickle of anger to keep her voice level. "I enjoy working. I like what I do. What I do matters! And I already don't need to work—I want to."_

Unwillingly he'd let her go and she'd left the family to their grief. It was unlikely they'd ever meet again, and she wished him the best.

The chimes were followed by the usual seatbelt and safety speeches, as flight attendants walked down the aisle pushing shut the overhead bins. Christine tucked the magazines into the seat-back pocket and looked out the window as the plane taxied slowly to the end of the runway. The engines revved and the huge silver craft made the leap from earth to sky. Below, the maze of tiny lines and shapes that was Seattle turned before disappearing below the clouds. It was blindingly bright; she pulled down the shade. Flight attendants were already rolling the carts down the aisle.

The funeral had left one inescapable impression—life was too damn short. She was tired of being alone. When she got got back home, Christine would find a counselor, maybe at the university health services, and go talk to them. Maybe she could get her head on straight. And if Erik would still speak to her...perhaps she'd try to fix that mess as well.

Christine accepted a soda and a bag of pretzels and shut her eyes.

* * *

The Wal-Mart Neighborhood Grocery was a lot more affordable, but the Uptown Market was nearest coming from the airport and Christine was tired. She'd been gone for days and it had been a week prior to that since her last food run. Anything at the apartment would be spoiled. There should be enough money in the account still to afford a shopping trip, even if it was to the Uptown. Maybe she'd indulge in a treat from their bakery. She flipped on the turn signal.

Ice, snow. Dreary grey clouds. This winter could be over anytime soon. She should probably check in on Martha Valerius as well...the elderly tended to suffer from seasonal depression and it had been two weeks since they'd last talked. She wedged the Honda into a narrow spot between a cart-return rack and a mound of snow, cursing at the awkward slot. Grabbing a cart, Christine dodged the blast of hot air by the doors and entered the store.

The comforting scent of warm baked goods was alluringly powerful and the pastries tempting. She selected a small flaky lemon curd tart as her well-deserved treat. Sourdough bread...some cheese. Fresh fruit. Veggies. Stir-fry tonight sounded good and would be quick and easy. Chicken. Scallops and shrimp from the seafood area, avoiding all those long fish lying on the ice and staring with their glassy dead eyes. Orange sauce. Was she out of salad dressing? Well, it would keep if not. Something for sandwiches? She pushed the cart around the corner, narrowly avoiding the tall figure in a black coat.

His head snapped up.

Erik froze at once, stiff and forbidding as he had been those many months ago. He looked tired, she thought, lines around his deep-set eyes. There was a flash of something in those dark eyes before the uncovered side of his face hardened into a mask of frigid politeness.

"Ms. Daae." He gave her one short, sharp nod and turned, pushing the cart past her.

"Erik," she faltered. All the things she'd thought about saying for the last month whirled and collapsed, confronted with this icy stare. Of course he would be here, the one time she went shopping in this place for herself. It figured.

Something grabbed her wrist, hard, and she spun around, heart slamming into overdrive, a frantic pulse that made her ears ring. "Where have you _been_?" a low, angry voice hissed.

She jerked back, but it was Erik, his black leather covered fingers tight on her arm. Christine nearly laughed in relief, but that seemed to make him only angrier. "This weekend? I was gone—out of town—to a funeral." She tried to pull her arm away but he only stepped closer.

"Without letting me know?"

Christine pulled harder on her hand, suddenly angry herself. "Yes. I don't owe you an explanation of how I spend my time. Let me _go_."

His bruising grip only tightened. "Not until I know what's going on."

"I told you, I was at a funeral!"

"You were with that boy."

"Dammit, Erik, his father died and I went to the funeral. He's my friend—that's what friends _do!_ Not that it's any business of yours!" She wrenched away from him, eyes flashing, and shoved the cart. He followed her around the corner into the next aisle.

"I called you, over and over. Repeatedly. I didn't know where you were, if you were hurt, if you'd…decided to ignore me, if you'd…."

Christine looked blankly at him, her temper simmering. "And why would I be ignoring you?"

"Because you virtually disappeared right after that night."

She could have laughed if it had not been so tense. "It had nothing to do with that. His father _died_. Not everything has to do with you! He's my friend."

"Then what am I? A one-night stand? Something to be used and then ignored for days? Goddammit, Christine, I need to know what's going on!"

"I left my phone here, I accidentally forgot it."

He stood there, fists clenched and eyes flashing. "And you couldn't find some way to call me? To tell me?"

She dragged a hand through her hair. "Honestly, Erik, I never thought of it. I don't have your number memorized, and it's unlisted anyways. I didn't want to borrow one of theirs to call back here long-distance or to try to leave a message with Task Rabbit. And there wasn't time…the whole weekend was such a stupid ugly mess."

"But you were with him."

It was then she finally heard the pain in his voice. "Yes, Erik," she said gently. "I was with Raoul. And his family. At a funeral. As a friend. And it was awful. And I thought about you, how much I would rather have been here with you."

* * *

Damned if he didn't hate the snow.

Buquet continued trudging. Fortunately there were a few places where it had melted or blown away. He'd followed the plan to the letter, parking the car back just off the county line road. He had gloves and a mask, his greasy hair tucked under a cap, cutters in his pocket. It had been a long time since he'd done a bit of b and e but things hadn't changed that much. How that bastard had known of his past, though...but if it went off right he'd be guaranteed a bit of cash and maybe a job rec elsewhere.

The house lay ahead of him, the yellow light of an upstairs window spilling out on the snow. He nodded to himself and checked the time. Not bad. Next time he might bring snowshoes or maybe skis—there were plenty of cross-country tracks in the forest and it would be faster. Or maybe he'd luck out and there wouldn't be much snow. Lady Luck f-ing owed him.

He skirted the house staying well inside the treeline, noting where the power lines entered the house and the layout of the downstairs windows and doors, then pulled the compact binoculars from his pocket. Those were clearly sensors on the windows for an alarm system. Hanging under the eaves were security cameras and another thing that looked very much like a motion sensor. Bastard was paranoid; he'd have to stay ducked over and hope it wasn't alarmed. He'd need to think on this.

Turning and trudging back through the woods, Buquet congratulated himself on his recon run. He'd always been smart like that, checking out a target well before the actual hit.

* * *

.

Thanks so much for reading, for reviewing, and for sticking with me. There are only a couple of chapters to go, and I'll do my best not to let three more months go between updates!

~R


	26. Chapter 26 Blizzard

**A/N—** Thank you all so much for commenting on that last chapter. I'm finding it difficult to get back into the swing of things with writing, and every word of encouragement means a lot!

In answer to someone's PM, yes, Raoul is pretty much out of the picture now. The poor guy has his hands full with a bickering family, company woes, a will to settle and other problems. Perhaps I wasn't quite fair to him—he is essentially a very nice guy, but not who Christine needs.

Onward.

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chp 26 Blizzard

2018

.

The skies were leaden, pressing down with the sharp smell of impending snow on the wind. Christine slammed the mailbox door, remembering to lock it, clutching the pile against her chest, then tightened the collar of her coat with one hand and trudged back up the sidewalk to her flat, stomping the snow off her boots at the door. It was miserably cold.

She tossed the handful of mail onto the counter and sighed when it skittered across to fall on the floor. Nothing was going right today. Parking on campus had been hell, and she'd discovered after a futile search that the reference materials she'd needed for her next paper had been checked out already from the library. Tossing her coat and gloves across the table, Christine added water to the electric kettle and pressed down the switch, reaching for teabags and her favorite mug. Maybe caffeine would help.

The letters had scattered across the floor and she bent to gather the fallen items, sorting as she rose. The usual ads, flyers, bills, and miscellany. A brightly-colored tri-fold caught her eye and she set the rest aside. College of Graduate Studies, Travel Study Courses, Summer Term and Intercession.

The kettle boiled and clicked off and she poured water over her teabag, absently dunking it up and down while perusing the flyer. Unlike most of her contemporaries, she had never been out of the country. There had never been enough money.

 _Film and Theater in Toronto: Discover the Hollywood of the North, Summer in Salamanca: Spanish Language Immersion, Wildlife of the Galapagos_...she flipped to the section on history and trailed a finger down to Europe. _Renaissance Art in Italy: A Tour of Cities and Museums, King Arthur to the Roman Occupation: The Prehistory of England, The Protestant Reformation in Germany, Paris and Provence…_

Reluctantly she set the brochure aside and removed the teabag, adding milk and sugar, carrying the steaming mug over to the deck doors and looking out across the snowy field. Paris and Provence. Someplace _warm_. France in the summer, a chance to practice her language before next year's exam, heat rising from hazy fields of lavender, the Louvre, the Opera Garnier, the shops and restaurants...maybe bicycling through some little town with a summery hat and a basket with cheese, bread, chocolate, and wine.

She could afford it; the tuition wasn't that much and she could find a cheap flight—the back of the plane got there as fast as the first class section. Room and board provided, and she could take an extra week or so to explore.

But not by herself. Reluctantly Christine pushed the fantasy aside. How much fun it would have been to have maybe gone with Meg, or even Erik. He'd mentioned that he had lived there once, and spoke the language fluently. She could have practiced with him, and had someone to tour the country with, could have aced that language requirement upon return.

The Girys had French ancestry, even relatives back there, but Meg would never be able to go, not with her practice schedule. She couldn't afford to miss one of the endless rounds of auditions and performances, not as a rising dancer. Meg had dreams and aspirations, a career that was ascending. No, she wouldn't be able to take a month off.

And not Erik, either. They'd parted with stiff apologies on each side, pointedly avoiding being at the checkout lanes at the same time. He must have left the Market immediately, avoiding her; she'd not even seen his car in the parking lot.

Christine set the mug aside, rubbing at the sting behind her eyes. She was tired, so tired, of being alone.

* * *

The shadows had lengthened into a cold and heavy darkness, with the Eames chair surrounded by a puddle of yellow light as if keeping the restless spirits of the night at bay. He closed the cover of the book, pushing the mug aside. The coffee, made hours ago, was surely cold. He wanted a finger of Scotch but that small comfort was denied him, and he snapped off the reading light.

 _Might as well go to bed._

Erik climbed the stairs, passing through the cavernous living room with its silent piano. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'd set to work again on the score. He had the idea now, just needed the lover's theme to complete it. He set the house alarm and headed down the hall.

As usual the bed beckoned and repelled, a stark reminder of what might have been. Seeing her this afternoon had been an accident, a cruel twist of fate, an chance opportunity ruined-he'd gone and botched it so badly, the rush of relief at seeing her turning to anger, his temper slipping, seeing again the fear and anger in her face as she'd pulled away from him.

God he was tired of being alone.

.

 _The small aircraft was shuddering hard, buffeted by winds so turbulent it seemed a giant hand had seized and was shaking it about. The glass before him splintered, a spiderweb of lines from the hailstorm. There was a searing flare of blue-white-purple, and then a loud crack…lightning, terrifyingly close. The drum of hail became a roar so loud he could not longer hear her screams behind him. Fighting the controls, he desperately looked for any place to land, but in the roaring darkness it was next to impossible. The small craft was descending without his help, and Erik reached over to slam his hand down on the EPIRB, hoping the plane would stay intact enough for them to locate the wreckage with the beacon. The windshield crumpled inward, ice and water spraying through the cabin. The screaming winds tore at the cabin, a black and white maelstrom of sound and debris. The small craft was flung sideways, spiraling downward..._

He jolted upwards, sheets tangled around his legs, heart pounding and voice hoarse, the sounds wrenched from his throat still echoing in his ears. Shuddering, Erik bent over, swallowing the bitter taste of bile and raking hands through his hair, down his chest. He was intact, the bed motionless, safe.

His daytime memory held no recall of the sounds of that horrific night. Those details were reserved for his nightmares. The force of the snapping trees, the freezing torrent through the shattered windshield, the desperate attempt to keep the wings level and nose up, the sudden plummet and the onrush of the slope and vertical cliff; these were the things he remembered.

PTSD, they called it.

Erik swung his legs to the side of the bed and staggered toward the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, then stripped off the sweat-soaked t-shirt and flung it in the bin. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep; he'd lost his chance for the night. Erik glanced at the bed, remembering with a rush her warm body curled against him, and pushed the thoughts away. He'd lost that chance as well.

* * *

Patrons turned at the blast of cold air, their snarls turning to sneers of contempt. "Shut the damn door," someone snapped, and he stumbled in, collapsing on a barstool. Only one tonight...he needed to stay sharp in case the call came through.

He ignored the television above the bar, with its empty-headed bleached blond reporter, swaddled in layers of scarves and a parka, breathlessly talking about the latest wreck on the highway. The weatherman gleefully informed the viewers that the front was arriving faster than predicted, and heavy precipitation was expected. _No shit._ It was winter, what did they think was gonna happen? Back on the set, the relentlessly perky anchor and her jutting silicon breasts faced the camera and reminded everyone to be safe out there.

Buquet slammed the last of his beer and turned to stare out the window. No word for a week now. What was he supposed to do? Sit here 'til he rotted? Maybe he'd have to push things a bit. If only he could figure out how to get past those cameras and security system he'd just do it and be done.

* * *

He rolled over, silencing the alarm. Morning already. His eyes felt like sandpaper; he'd retrieved the book and read for hours, unable to sleep. Slowly he scooted into an upright position, carefully moving his sleep-stiffened body. What a wretched night. Erik reached for the tablet on the nightstand, idly flicking through the morning news, reading the occasional article, dismissing most of the political ranting and entertainment sections. One article on music caught his eye and he clicked on it. It opened in Yahoo and the blinking 1 in the upper right corner demanded his attention. _You have mail_. He frowned…that was a dead account, or so he'd thought. He opened it, not recognizing the sender. The message sent a rivulet of ice down to his stomach.

 _Not all of us has forgot Carla and what you did._

Abruptly he was wide awake, frozen in the warm bed, pulse pounding behind his eyes. What the hell? Angrily he jabbed the X closing the note, but reopened it a minute later, staring at the accusing words, noting the sender's name. A moment's searching showed it as a deactivated account…but the date was this past weekend. A very recently deactivated account.

There was no way to locate for the sender that he knew of, but flagged it as spam and blocked the sender just in case.

The message followed his thoughts downstairs and into the kitchen, hovering on the edges of his thoughts as he irritably punched buttons on the coffee machine. Carla. She'd been out with someone, that final night of her life, but whom? He racked his thoughts for the thousandth time since her death. Not Piangi. Erik knew what the media did not, that the Italian tenor had finally reached his limit with Carla's lies and manipulation. He'd thrown her over for a nubile young thing in the chorus. Alberto Piangi went through women like water.

But whom. He knew with a bone-deep certainty Carla had not taken her own life. She was far too self-absorbed for that, never displaying a shred of remorse, guilt, or self-pity. She took, she used, she moved on. From him as well. A divorce was inevitable, he'd seen what he'd become reflected in her eyes, an angry, ugly man.

Could it be that she'd moved on from someone else as well, someone who didn't take the news well? Always a possibility, but in that case, why murder her?

Across the city, the snow continued falling.

* * *

"Jesus, Chris...why didn't you ever tell me any of this?" The silence stretched out between them, heavy and painful. Meg's hazel eyes filled with tears and she squeezed her friend's hand tightly. "I'm so sorry. I wish I'd known. Couldn't you have..."

"I didn't tell anybody," Christine's voice was a broken whisper. "Who would have believed me? He was the golden boy, the track star, the football hero. His parents ran the country club scene."

"Your mom would have," Meg said gently. "And I would have. And your dad. And my mom too."

"Yeah, but Mom was going through chemo then, remember? With that breast cancer scare? She was so sick...I didn't want to add to her problems."

Meg took one last sip of her wine and regretfully pushed away the glass. The apartment was dim, only the flickering light from the fireplace giving any illumination. Christine had called that afternoon in tears, and begged to come up for just a little while. The quaver in her voice had warned Meg this was no casual request and she'd rapidly agreed, calling in excuses to miss a meeting with the wedding caterer, knowing her mother would be thrilled to have a free hand with some of the preparations. She'd hugged her friend at the door and Christine had started shaking, tears seeping from her reddened eyes. Meg had drawn her down to the sofa in front of the fireplace and offered a glass of wine, holding her hand.

It had been easier for Christine to get the words out in the darkness, the words coming in a cascade of guilt, shame, and fear. Horrified, Meg had done her best to listen without asking questions. "I'm so sorry. I feel like I should have known, should have figured it out. You always hated him, that bastard."

Turned sideways on the couch, legs drawn up underneath an afghan, Christine nodded shakily. Meg sat silently for a minute, slowly putting the pieces together. "So that's why you've never really had a good relationship, huh? Bad memories?"

Christine blotted her eyes again with the shredded tissue. "I guess. I mean...I got some things, you know, over with in college...I felt like such a loser...but I never really liked it. It was always just something to get through."

Meg squeezed her hand again. "That sucks for you...so much. But Chris, did you tell Erik any of this? Try to explain it?"

She shook her head miserably. "No. I just...freaked out. And I'm sure he thinks it was all his fault."

"God, Chris, you have to talk to him. Let him know, I mean...something. You like this guy, right? And he likes you?"

"I thought he did. Now...I don't know." A lone tear slid down her cheek. "He was so angry with me. I've really screwed it all up, haven't I?"

* * *

He stumbled in the snow, cursing how it seeped into his boots. Damned pants kept coming untucked. Viciously he wedged them down again and moved forward. With the rate the snow was coming down it would cover his tracks and the car's too, soon. That was a good thing. He pushed on.

Ahead through the trees the house sat, a different white against the snow, the windows darkened. It had been hours….surely even the battery backups were dead by now. No generator, either, if he was any judge. The guy might not even be home. Buquet patted his pocket. He'd brought a little insurance, though, just in case.

He raised the binoculars and squinted, numbed fingers holding the Bushnells as steady as possible. No red lights on the cameras, on the driveway the furrows from tires leading away from the house...hot damn, he might truly be in luck.

Buquet edged forward, out into the open slope of lawn. He'd be in range soon, but if caught he could always claim he'd had car trouble and gotten lost, looking for help.

Nothing happened, no alarms, no floodlight, no motion-sensor-moving cameras. He staggered up to the deck doors, in keeping with his role as lost driver. No lights, nothing. It took only minutes to cut the panes and reach inside, turning the lock. A swift kick and the lower pane shattered, and he moved the metal rod aside, pulling the upper and lower deadbolts, and stepped inside.

* * *

"That's it, then," Erik groused, as the early evening newscaster cheerfully reminded everyone where shelters were available.

He'd woken to a chilly bedroom. When the bedside lamp had failed to respond he'd checked the breakers, then raised the blinds. The entire neighborhood was dark, street lamps and houses buried under a fresh layer of ice and snow. Cell service was still up and a quick check revealed a power outage on the south end of town. Erik had tossed another blanket on the bed and crawled back in, hoping to find the situation improved when morning came.

It hadn't been.

Khan called, having seen the morning news, and invited him over with a promise of pancakes and hot coffee. Erik had gratefully accepted, bundling up and taking twice as long to make the commute across town. The front had turned into an ice storm, sweeping in from the Canadian coast. Heavy snow blanketed the city and surrounding counties. He'd ended up spending the day as it became apparent that the substation repairs were going to take much longer than anticipated.

"Why don't they bury these things underground?"

"They couldn't hike our rates that way for the repairs," Khan said reasonably.

"Think how much they could raise them to do the burial, though?"

Khan laughed and gathered the coffee mugs. "You're more than welcome to spend the night," he called over his shoulder, taking them back into the kitchen of his tiny apartment. "God knows I've slept enough at your place. We can have another game."

"I can get a hotel room."

"There's not a room to be had, I'd wager. You saw they'd closed the interstate; every person out there has already grabbed one for the night. Of course, you're always welcome to freeze in your house, if that's what you want. I'm sure the floor in front of the fireplace is very comfortable."

"Fine." Erik rolled his eyes, stood and reached for his coat. "I'll go check on things and grab my overnight stuff."

"You might bring back a pizza, assuming anything's open. You know what I like. No mushrooms, though," he said firmly. "And extra onions."

"Can do."

"Let yourself out. I'll go put some sheets on the bed."

Erik pulled the neoprene mask snuggly down over his damaged face and tugged on heavy gloves before stepping out carefully into the evening. If anything the wind whistling between the buildings was more biting than it had been hours ago, and it was already dark this far north and late in the year. Maybe he'd have that pizza delivered instead. Assuming anyone was delivering.

He didn't really want to spend the night at Khan's place, even if the man kept a spare bedroom. Both valued their privacy, despite the long friendship. Once upon a time there had been a plan to send a young relative over to attend the university, and Khan had rented a two-bedroom unit with that thought in mind. It had never come to pass, though, and he'd kept the unit anyway for emergencies, but Erik hated to be beholden. Maybe the house wouldn't be bad.

Though he drove at a crawl with the traction control flashing, the Mercedes fishtailed twice before he could get back to the house, and Erik took the icy driveway at a run. He hesitated briefly, debating whether to leave the car idling, but surely it wouldn't take more than a minute to gather his kit bag and a change of clothes; the car wouldn't cool off that quickly. He slid the key in the lock, opening the front door, and stepped in, reaching for the alarm panel before the twenty second countdown kicked in.

The panel, though, was dark and the house as well, colder than he'd expected. Still no power. _Well, definitely Khan's tonight._ There was a decent bottle of red in the kitchen that would go well with pizza, but first, he'd grab the laptop from downstairs. He'd left it on the keyboard, intending some editing of the soundscript later on. He could do that just as easily over there. Erik dropped the gloves on the kitchen counter and set the wine next to them. _Won't forget it that way_ , and headed down the hall, slipping loose the buttons of his overcoat.

The lower level was unpleasantly cold, the stairwell utterly dark. Erik felt his way into the workroom, edging along the wall. Somewhere on the bench was an LED flashlight. He found it and clicked it on, blinking in the sudden glare of light.

There was an unfamiliar scent in the room, stale and sour. A spilled chemical? No. Nothing like that, the jars were still neatly lined up and sealed. The innate wrongness of the situation was becoming harder to dismiss. He froze, senses tingling, and swept the compact light around the room. Something was off. The laptop sat dark and silent atop the keyboard where he'd left it, but the cabinet door beside it was slightly ajar. Frowning, Erik stepped into the living area.

A chill breeze swept the room., the sheer draperies fluttering at the French doors. He had only a moment to register the sense of movement before a dark shape came at him, striking a heavy blow across his shoulder. The light flew and shattered, as together they tumbled through the door back into the workroom.

" _Where is it?_ " heavy and foul, a voice hissed in his ear. Erik twisted like a cat, but the long wool coat was making it impossible to break away. A hand struck his face, strong blunt fingers in a ragged glove pressing against his mouth, cutting off his air, cracking his head hard against the wall in a shower of sparks behind his eyes, and Erik slammed one knee upwards between the other man's legs. His assailant fell back, retching and gasping, shoving Erik hard. _"Goddammit, you bastard!"_ He stumbled to the right, one arm raking the workbench desperately. Hammer, screwdriver, anything…

The figure lunged at him again, and he heard the unmistakable sound of a hammer being drawn back, cocked, as his assailant gasped and panted, flailing about, reaching for him.

His fingers clawed frantically at the work table's surface, rolling on something thin. Strings...the violin he was repairing. Erik scrabbled for the catgut wires, looping them and twisting, whipping them over the other man's head as the figure struggled, striking at him, tightening, tightening, hearing the surprised gasp and choking sputters. The man's hands grabbled at his, raking his flesh with dirty nails, and Erik viciously twisted the makeshift noose, the wires cutting into his palm. _Him or me._

He managed to get a finger on the weapon as the intruder viciously kicked, a heavy boot crashing against his bad leg. He fell, one hand still fighting for control of the gun, pointing it upwards, their combined weight dragging on the trigger. At this close range, the discharge was deafening.

* * *

.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this update. :) We are about 2 chapters from the end, I think.

Please review...it feeds and encourages the author!

~R


	27. Chapter 27 A Cold Recovery

**A/N—** Thank you all for your wonderful comments—and so many of them!-on the last chapter.

Now, we'd left off with an attack in the darkness...

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chp 27 A Cold Recovery

2018

.

"And he is _my_ patient!" The voice outside the door was a dull roar. Not for the first time Erik thought Khan would make a fine baritone.

His head hurt abominably, he was dizzy and nauseated. The room, all white and shining stainless steel, was almost unbearably cold and bright. His shoulder hurt. His left arm was strapped to his chest and an IV line ran into the back of his right hand. Everything was out of focus and nothing made sense. Erik shut his eyes, letting the raised voices outside the door blur into meaningless murmurs. Something had happened, but it was just beyond his reach.

The door opened and a disapproving Khan entered, followed by two tired and harassed-looking officers. Erik spared them a glance and tried to focus on his friend. "Where am I?" His voice was merely a croak.

"At the Medical Center, Erik." Khan leaned over the bed, shining a light in his eyes. Erik winced and turned his head, immediately regretting that decision. The room spun and he gagged, heaving into the basin Khan quickly pressed beneath his chin.

"Sorry," he muttered. The awful stench and taste roiled in his stomach.

Khan held up a large plastic mug from the beside tray where he could reach the straw. "Rinse your mouth."

He complied and leaned back, exhausted. "What happened?"

Khan settled into the chair next tot he bed and crossed one leg over his knee. "What do you remember?"

"Sir," the lead officer interjected firmly from the foot of the bed, "let us ask the questions."

Erik stared at the men. "Why are they here?"

"It's okay, Erik. Just tell us what you remember."

He turned blankly at the doctor. "From when?" His face ached, the tone muffled and soggy. Papery edges brushed his lips.

"This afternoon, Mr. Martin."

Erik ignored the officer, speaking to his friend. "I feel terrible."

"You should. You have two good-sized bumps on your head."

"My shoulder hurts."

"Yes," Khan said patiently. "You have a few injuries. Why don't you tell us how you got them?" He reached forward and snapped off the overhead fluorescents.

"I was at your house, right? Because of the storm?"

"Yes."

The lead officer shot Khan an irritable look, but behind them the sandy-haired man began taking notes. Erik frowned heavily. "I left. We were going to get a pizza. It was snowing. Is it still snowing?"

"It finally let up."

He nodded and winced. "I drove home...the car was skidding. It was cold in the house." He frowned again, his voice growing slowly more assured. "I think I stopped in the kitchen...I did stop in the kitchen. Got the wine, for the pizza. Went downstairs—I was getting my laptop. It was cold—there was a breeze—the curtains were blowing. The door was open. Then this guy attacked me." He sat up, his voice angry. Khan put out a restraining hand, pushing him back gently. "He jumped me, slammed me into the wall. I kicked him in the balls, he hit me again….there was a gun and we were fighting for it. That son of a bitch was trying to kill me! I grabbed a string—violin string, and I was choking him and he kicked my leg and we fell!" He stared at Khan, his dark eyes sunken and wild in their bruised circles. "How the hell did I get here? I don't remember any more. Was I shot?"

Khan shook his head, patting one leg. "You have a concussion. You probably hit your head again when you fell; that's a hard concrete floor. You were shot, but the bullet went through your shoulder, up at an angle. Missed the scapula. An inch over and it would have hit your neck. You were lucky."

"That bastard _shot_ me?"

The older officer sighed. "It looks like it, yes. Did you recognize your assailant, sir?"

"No." Erik frowned, images blurring in his mind. "It was dark; he was wearing something over his face, like a ski mask."

"Do you have any idea what he wanted?"

Harsh words, a rasping voice in his ear….just out of reach. "He said something….I can't remember."

"Do you keep valuables in your house?"

"No."

"Any weapons? Coin collection, jewelry, cameras, electronics?"

Erik grimaced. "Nothing like that. The most expensive thing there is the piano, and that's not exactly portable. And some stereo equipment from the '90s...specialist stuff, big and heavy. My instruments."

"Any medications or large amounts of cash?"

"There is a twenty year old bottle of Scotch, but I doubt that's what you're referring to. Advil. Sleeping pills. Some wine. Nothing illegal, if that's what you're asking."

The officer nodded, glancing at his partner. "That's about it for now. If you think of anything else, give us a call." He held out his contact card and Erik took it automatically with his good arm.

"Wait, what about the guy who attacked me? Are you going to charge him with anything? He broke into my house and attacked me!"

The men exchanged a glance. "Well, now, that might be a bit difficult, seeing as to how he's dead."

"Dead?" Erik stared dumbfounded at the policeman then at Khan. "He's dead?"

"Yes," the officer replied calmly, but his eyes watched the man on the bed intently. "Seems he had a heart attack or something after that little incident with the wire around his neck."

Erik stared, horrified, at the men. "Did I kill him?"

Khan glared at the officers. "No, Erik, you did not. But he did have a medical incident of some kind. The autopsy will tell." He rose and walked to the door, holding it open. "Gentlemen? The patient needs to rest."

"We'll be back later, when we have some more information." The policemen nodded, then filed out and he shut the door.

"How did I get here?"

Khan returned and leaned back in the chair. "You'd been gone about half an hour when I got a page from the hospital, wanting me to come in. Watanabe couldn't make it in, Colleen was starting a double shift, so many accidents they were calling in all the hands. I tried to call but you didn't answer, so I figured you were busy. Tried to call again, wanted to let you know that you were still welcome to spend the night, but you still didn't answer. It was beginning to bug me, so I swung by here—didn't want you to be in some ditch or something. The house was open and I found you and that guy downstairs. Called 911; ambulance brought you both in."

"How long have I been here? What time is it?"

"It's been a couple hours. And I'm going to have to get back to it. You wouldn't believe the ER."

"Wait, my shoulder?"

"The bullet passed through the big muscle; you'll be fine, just let it heal. It's stitched up,so don't go messing with it. You won't be able to hold a violin for a few days, but you'll be fine. I'm more worried about your head. Good thing it's so hard."

He smiled and stood, positioning the bedside table within reach. "We're keeping you overnight for observation. Get some rest, Erik, and enjoy the good pain meds while they last. Call the nurse if you need anything, or if the pain increases." The door closed behind him.

Erik shut his eyes and leaned his aching head against the hard mattress, making a futile attempt to tug the blanket up. Damned hospital gowns; he suspected he was naked underneath. The remote lay beside his hip on the bed, and Erik lowered the head end a bit and turned off the lights.

The paper twisted sideways, partially covering his mouth, and Erik pulled it aside impatiently. The prosthetic was gone, no doubt torn in the fight and removed in the hospital at some point. The green surgical mask was the best option Khan had been able to find on such short notice. He'd seen the looks the officers exchanged, but was simply too tired to care. There were no windows in this small room, no clock that he could see. His shoulder throbbed, his ribs ached, his face ached, his head was pounding. There was a bandage around one hand, probably from the violin strings cutting into his palm; both were scraped and swollen. His bad knee was stiff and painful. He'd had no dinner but the mere thought of food made him queasy.

He'd killed a man.

Erik shut his eyes and tried to push the thought away.

* * *

"I'm going to fall asleep on my feet if I don't have some coffee." Jimenez draped the stethoscope around his neck and Khan nodded, leaning against the wall and drying his hands.

"What a night." The two men wearily departed the ER. "Who the hell rides a motorcycle on the ice anyway?"

Noise spilled into the corridor. The tiny cafeteria appeared overwhelmed, the dining area flooded with tired families. Behind the register, Christi looked up and shook her head, jerking it to point where the line stretched out past the door. Khan nodded ruefully and the two men continued on down the hall toward the lounge.

He dropped into a plastic chair and rubbed his bleary eyes. God, what a night. The university health center had sent over a handful of injuries, mostly broken bones and sprains from the slippery sidewalks—why didn't those kids just stay indoors?-but the worst had been from the city. There had been a house fire with several victims, mostly children unable to get out, frostbite and hypothermia cases, and car accidents across town. One tourist had decided to play Paul Bunyan and buried an ax in his shin trying to chop wood. A stranded family had been brought in with carbon monoxide poisoning from not clearing the snow away from their car's tailpipe. How did people not know to do that? Two women went into labor, but the worst of it had been the multi-car accident on the highway, just before they closed it. And that was on top of the usual winter flu and childhood viruses, drug overdoses, alcohol issues, and accidents from the ski area.

Behind him Jimenez cursed methodically in Spanish, as someone had committed the cardinal sin of not refilling the coffee pot. He leaned down and began rummaging in the cabinet.

"Don't bother." From the couch in the corner Colleen removed the arm across her eyes and sat blearily up. "We're out. I'm gonna have someone's head."

Khan dragged himself back to his feet. "Stay put...I'll go across the street and bring us all back something. And buy some coffee. Text me what you want."

"About ten hours of sleep," Colleen muttered, slumping back down. "And a foot massage. But thanks." She pulled her phone from her pocket and Jimenez did the same.

* * *

Cowboy Coffee was always difficult and it had been ages since she'd treated herself to anything at Starbucks. Christine pulled into the driveway and grimaced at the line. Inside, then.

The university had grudgingly canceled classes in the midst of the blizzard and today as well, as heavy equipment began the tedious process of clearing parking lots and roads. It seemed to be a mark of pride amongst the stoic nature of northerners not to close for any weather, and the campus expected to be back to business tomorrow.

She eased the Honda into a newly-vacated parking place and walked carefully cross the rutted lot, the aroma of hot coffee immediately assailing her senses inside the steamy building. Coffee and a donut or slice of nut bread or a breakfast sandwich all sounded wonderful.

A table cleared and Christine pounced on it, balancing cup, plate, and backpack, finding it mercifully close to an outlet. The walls of her little apartment had been closing in on her for days; she might as well work here as anywhere. She edged the plate aside and flipped open her laptop, connecting to the wifi.

"Mind if I join you? It's rather crowded in here."

Christine looked up, surprised, then smiled at the familiar face. "Dr. Khan! No, please, sit down. Are you on duty at the hospital?" She quickly cleared space on the small table.

He sat gratefully, stretching out long legs. "Thank you, and please call me Nadir. Yes, I'm on a break and we are out of coffee. Not that it's ever good coffee, but it keeps us going. I've come on a supply run." He popped the lid and blew on the steaming liquid.

"I like your beard," she grinned. "It suits you. Much better than a goatee or that rough stubble look."

"Does it now?" He stroked the short beard, pleased. "It will stay about this length, I think. I thought it might help keep my face warm."

"How is Erik?" she asked, after a moment.

Khan took a cautious sip, debating how to answer. "He's working on a new project, for a film. Someone picked up one of his old pieces and decided they had to have him."

"I'm glad," she said quietly. "I've been...worried about him."

"Have you, now." He gave her an appraising look and she looked away, swallowing. "I thought things were not working out between you?"

She blanched. "Did he tell you what happened? On our last date?"

Khan took another careful sip of the scalding coffee. "Not in so many words, no...he wouldn't do that. But I sort of pieced it together that the evening was not, ah, um, exactly a success. For either of you."

"We were, you know, together, and...I guess I had a...a panic attack, or something." She swallowed hard, looking out across the parking lot. "I just kind of froze up...and my heart was racing...and there all these memories that I couldn't push away and..." She glanced at Khan then looked away, clearly uncomfortable. "I didn't know what to say. Couldn't think of what to say that wouldn't just make it worse. And he was so upset...not quite angry...but he didn't understand and I just made it worse." Christine wiped her eyes on her napkin.

 _Sounds like a flashback._ Khan was quiet a moment. "I'm a doctor, not a counselor," he said carefully. "But if you need someone to listen, I can make some recommendations."

She nodded, trying to gather her thoughts.

"The university counseling services are worth pursuing," he continued. "And they're free. If that's what you need."

"Maybe? I don't know."

The barista called his name and Khan rose. "That's my order; I have to be getting back. Give it some thought, and let me know if I can help." He began buttoning his coat. "And Christine...if it makes any difference….he...thinks of you as well. I think you two ought to give it another chance. But that's me as a friend speaking, not as a professional. Take care." He gathered his bag and cup tray and nodded, heading briskly out the door and across the street.

* * *

"The police are here to see you, Mr. Martin," the nurse said briskly, opening the door.

"Send them in." Erik raised the bed into a sitting position as the men walked in. "Gentlemen?

"You're looking better today." The older man seated himself at the chair while the younger leaned against the wall and took out his notepad.

Erik smiled grimly. He'd been up on his feet long enough to use the facilities and catch a glimpse in the mirror. Two black, sunken eyes has stared at him from a swollen face, the remaining ridge of bone above the sinuses taped and clearly broken. "I am looking worse, but I'm a little more with it. What can I do for you today?"

The officer glanced at a slip of paper in his hand. "We've discovered the name of your assailant—a Joseph Buquet."

Erik stared. "Buquet? Joe Buquet? But I know him. Or did, anyway. He used to work at the theater down in Denver, where my late wife was employed."

"You knew him but you didn't recognize him? His voice or anything?"

Erik shook his head and winced. "No. I hadn't seen him in...what, four years? I didn't know him all that well to begin with; he was just someone who worked there. I don't think my wife was friends with him either."

"In what capacity was he employed?"

"I believe he was a failed actor, never quite good enough? One of those people who hung around the theater scene," Erik said slowly. "He had an alcohol problem, it was rumored. He did odd jobs—janitorial, officially, but sometimes he did a stint as a night watchman, or stage hand if needed. Like I said, I didn't know him, just knew who he was."

"Any idea why he was in your house that night? It seems a bit of a coincidence that he chose yours to break into."

"No idea. I haven't seen him in years." Erik frowned.

"He'd been living here in town for some weeks, down at the Motel 6, apparently."

"Okay." His mind was blank, impatient. "Do you have any idea what he was after?"

The older officer shook his head. "We've requested phone records, contacted the theater, the usual things. Seems he was let go about a month back, sexual harassment and damage complaints."

"My house? Was anything taken, messed with? What about the door?"

"Your friend had someone come and put up a piece of plywood on that back door, but as for the house, we really don't know, sir. We need you to check things over when you get home and let us know. It's nothing obvious, at least."

* * *

"Collect your things, time to go home," Khan said cheerily from the doorway. He was greeted by Erik's irritable scowl. "Come come, cheer up. You're getting sprung from this joint." He smiled.

Two days in the hospital had not improved Erik's mood. His upper body protested every movement, his nose and shoulder throbbed relentlessly. His hands were a mess, stiff, the knuckles bruised and scraped, and his head ached. The nurses, taking his vital signs every few hours of the night had not helped.

"Am I supposed to go home in this paper gown?" he snarled, and his friend grinned.

"Now now, don't fret. I swung by your house and brought you a change of clothes. You can't put your arm through the shirt but we'll wrap it around you and buckle the coat around it."

"I don't have a coat any more." They'd cut his clothing off in the ER, and he knew the blood-soaked garments had been disposed of.

"You can borrow mine."

"And just how am I getting home? My car's at the house."

"Oh, you're not allowed to drive, not with a concussion." Khan shook his head and Erik glared. "Fear not, I've found you a ride."

Erik slid white and bony feet off the bed and sat up with a hiss of pain. Khan stopped him with a hand. "Hang on, the nurse will be in shortly to detach that IV." He settled into the chair and crossed one leg. "MedRide's not available, so I called that errand service you used to use." He smiled beatifically. "They're sending over a driver. It seems you have one on file as your usual request."

The meaning of his words sank in and Erik's head snapped up, spinning with pain.

"No."

"Why not?" Khan said reasonably. "She doesn't mind, and it's a good chance for you two to talk."

"You've already spoken with her?"

"Of course; I had to let her know why you needed a ride. She was...most upset." _That had been an understatement._

"Dammit, Khan, I said no."

"You're being unreasonable. What else are you going to do? Walk home?" Khan raised one eyebrow with maddening calm, waiting for Erik's response.

"I'll get an Uber or a Lyft, or something."

"You may feel free to try," he agreed pleasantly, "but I can assure you, from overhearing the crowd down in the waiting area, there's not a ride to be had in the town. No one wants to get out on the ice."

"God _dammit_ , Khan!"

"Settle down; you're going to make your headache worse. Or tear your stitches. Why are you so against this?"

Pride and anger warred, but truth won out. "Because she never sees me as anything other than injured and helpless! And I hate that!"

"So you care how she sees you?"

"Of course."

"And you want her to see you as a normal, healthy man?"

Erik gave him a withering look. "What do you think."

"I think you should give her a chance. She's not the pitying kind, Erik. And she cares about you. Besides," he smiled, "most women seem to like a little hurt/comfort."

The nurse arrived, followed by an orderly, and Erik glared at his friend. "I am _not_ riding down in that thing!"

* * *

Downstairs, Christine edged the Honda around the lot, avoiding the great heaped mounds of snow. Thank heavens the hospital had some priority with road-clearing. She found a spot that faced the covered entrance and parked, leaving the car warm and idling.

Dr. Khan...Nadir's…text had come through at the end of her French class, and she'd snuck a quick look at the screen as the final recitation of the period was given. Theresa was terrible at the language, her pronunciation making even the lecturer wince. _Call me back, need a quick favor?_ It was probably better she'd still been in the hallway when he'd answered, otherwise her response might have been a little more voluble.

The doors opened and a family emerged, stepping carefully under the covered awning, the girl on crutches grinning and waving at the driver who pulled up to collect them all, the topknot on her neon pink ski hat bobbling with her laughter. Christine grinned back, even though she couldn't be seen. The doors snapped open again and there he was, wrapped in a heavy camel-colored overcoat in a wheelchair, being pushed by a young man in scrubs, with Dr. Khan walking beside.

She pulled the car forward, unbuckling to rise just as Dr. Khan called out. "Stay inside, please, it's freezing out here. I'll do it." She nodded obediently and turned up the heat as he pulled open the door. Erik stood, slowly, and stepped toward the car, plainly irritated by the other man's hovering. The doctor removed a heavy white plastic sack from the rear of the chair, and the orderly backed it up and disappeared inside the building.

Erik eased himself into the seat, grateful her car sat well up off the ground. The Mercedes would have been awkward. The coat pulled tightly around him as he fumbled for the seatbelt and he stifled a curse as pain lanced up his ribs.

Khan tossed the bag into the back and caught Christine's questioning look. "Pain meds, room stuff, extra bandages, that sort of thing." She nodded and Khan closed the door. "Erik, take care of yourself. I'll be by when I can to check on that shoulder."

He nodded stiffly, and the doctor waved them on. Christine said nothing as he carefully twisted, drawing the seatbelt over to latch it one-handedly. Khan raised a hand in farewell and ducked back inside.

They pulled out on to the road and she glanced at the seat man next to her. Erik stared forward, his jaw clenched.

"So…can you tell me what happened?" she asked, after a moment.

"Khan didn't tell you?"

"He only said you'd been in the hospital and needed a ride home."

"Ah. Well, someone broke into the house and attacked me."

"WHAT?" Christine whipped her head around to stare at him, then back at the road. "You're...and you're hurt? From that? Erik!"

"Concussion, cracked ribs, twisted the knee, assorted scrapes and bruises, gunshot to the shoulder," he said casually, and the car lurched as her hands tightened on the wheel. "Please be careful."

She glared at him as they paused at a stoplight. "Don't be an asshole. I could say the same to you! That's not even remotely funny, Erik! Were you really shot?"

He indicated the limp sleeve of Khan's mohair coat, tucked into the belt, and his arm in a sling. "Afraid so. I can assure you that it wasn't a pleasant experience."

Too many thoughts fought to escape, and she ruthlessly clamped them down. "Will you be okay?"

"Yes."

 _Damn the man_. She clenched her teeth. The roads were well scraped now, dry snow swirling across the pavement, yet Christine maneuvered the Honda as if carrying her great-grandmother's china, trying not to jar her taciturn passenger, and cast about for something safe to say.

"How was the food?"

"Hardly gourmet cuisine," he said dryly, and she smiled.

"No, I imagine not. Certainly not like that wonderful fish you made that night."

They rode in silence for a minute. "No. I have been meaning to try that recipe again, perhaps with trout."

"Trout would be good with that sauce."

He took a careful breath. "Would you be interested in testing it with me?"

 _Did he mean it?_ "I would."

Beside her he relaxed slightly. "Good."

They pulled into his driveway, packed with snow, and she shut off the engine, unbuckling even as he glowered.

"There's no need," he began.

"I'm coming in for a minute," she said patiently. "I can at least make you a cup of coffee or something."

Coffee sounded heavenly. "Fine. The stuff the hospital makes is sludge."

"That's what Dr. Khan said." She came around to open the door.

"Stop hovering," he snapped and Christine stiffened.

"If you slip and fall Dr. Khan will have my head," she shot back. "Deal with it."

She retrieved the bag from the back seat and followed him up the short walkway to the house, each moving cautiously through the drifted snow, and stomping on the porch.

"The house is likely to be cold," he warned. "The power was off for a while."

"Two days, I think, out here." She shut and locked the door behind them, dropping the bag of supplies on the table in the entryway. It was cold, with the still dead air of a building long unoccupied, damp and dark.

He fumbled at the switch and the lights flickered on. In the wan light he looked pale, his dark hair disheveled, as he put out a hand against the wall.

"Sit down," Christine said gently. "Let's get some decent coffee in you."

Erik shrugged off the coat and left it draped across the sofa, utterly weary, continuing down the hallway. Thermostat...up. From the kitchen he could hear the hiss of the Jura heating water as Christine set coffee mugs on the counter. The Eames chair looked wonderful, but Erik suspected he'd never be able to get up from it once down, and settled instead at the piano. At least the bench was high.

Stacks of music littered the surface, handwritten notation scribbled atop the printed sheets. So close. He eased the bad arm from the sling and carefully touched the keys, wincing at the twist and pull of abused muscles. There was no way he could play. Forcing himself up and away from the piano he entered the kitchen.

Christine stood before the Jura, a package of coffee beans in her hand. "How on Earth do you operate this thing?" she said, exasperated.

"The grinder is in the cabinet above." He waited until she'd pulled it down and plugged it in, explaining how to measure and pulse the aromatic beans, and adjusted the mask. Drinking with this was going to be difficult.

Christine scraped the grounds into the basket and pushed it in, studying the panel. So many options. Behind her Erik sat at the table, pulling at the surgical mask across his face. His shirt gaped open, white bandaging stark against his pale skin. He had to be cold; the house was chilly, warming very slowly. Surely they could figure out something for him to wear….maybe a zippered fleece jacket or something that he wouldn't need to pull over his head. She glanced at him, about to suggest it, as he tugged the mask into better position.

"Oh, take the damn thing off, Erik. I've seen you without it. Hell, I've kissed you without it."

He froze, those piercing black eyes locked on her own.

"And would you do it again, knowing what you know now?"

"Yes, I would." She faced him with her hands on her hips. "I don't like you for your face, I like you for you, you stupid man. Now tell me how to work this blasted machine."

The words hung between them in the stillness of the house.

.

* * *

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Thanks for reading and hanging in here with me, and please review!


	28. Chapter 28 Reconciliation & Conversation

**A/N—** Thank you all so much for your lovely reviews and notes, here and on Tumblr! I'd like to apologize for the long delay in posting this chapter—the holidays caught up with me, and a bad case of writer's block on the chapter took its toll. Hopefully the two Christmas stories made up for it a bit! A special thanks goes out to wheel-of-fish and especially to tasteofthebitchpudding for patiently listening to me despair over writing, and offering concrete suggestions, encouragement, and humor. You are the best.

The Measure of a Man

Chp 28 Reconciliation and Conversations

2018, 2019

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He tensed, then the shoulders slumped. "Well, there's no fairy tale here, Christine. You needn't kiss the monster."

The weariness in his voice tightened her throat. "Is that what she called you? A monster?"

"Something like that. Among other things. Appropriate, don't you think?"

"I think she sounds like a bitch," Christine said crisply. "But you didn't ask that, so I'll shut up."

He gave a soft chuckle, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a tired smile. "You're more right than you know; she was that, yes. But it was certainly mutual, and one isn't supposed to speak ill of the dead."

"Why not? It sounds like she was awful to you, both before and after the accident. Unless it bothers you?"

"No. But I prefer not to discuss it."

She nodded, flushing. _Shut up, Christine. Not your business_. "OK. I'm sorry." The Jura gave a final gurgle and triumphant hiss, and she pulled the small carafe from the base and held it up.

"Coffee?"

"Please."

He took the mug to the small kitchen table, easing into the chair and wrapping hands still swollen and bruised around the cup for warmth. God, he wanted a shower, wanted this woman gone from his house, wanted to sleep and not dream, to not hear the words in his head.

 _He's dead._

She moved about the room, setting sugar and a carton of half-and-half before him.

 _I killed someone, Christine. With these hands, I killed him. I can't justify it._

 _He was in your house, he attacked you._

 _Yes, but I had no idea he had heart problems. Khan said he_

 _It doesn't matter. It was you or him._

Erik shook his head, forcing himself to focus through the buzzing in his ears. The wine bottle still sat on the end of the counter. He dragged himself upright. "On second thought, let's go to the other room, and then I must check the downstairs. Khan said he'd put up a panel over the door, but it will probably need some repair work done."

They carried their coffee into the living room where Erik winced as he lowered himself to the piano bench and hunched over the steaming mug. Christine paused to turn on the lights then curled up on the sofa, pulling the heavy Pendleton blanket across her knees and patting it. "Is this new? It's nice."

He managed a smile. "I tend to doze off on the sofa when I'm working, hence the blanket. And Khan's spent the night there on occasion."

"Dr. Khan said you had a new project." She took a careful sip.

"Yes, a movie score. If I can complete it on time, with this arm."

"A movie score!" Her lovely blue eyes sparkled with interest. "What's it about?"

"Do you remember hearing about the war in Sarajevo? It's a story like that, a couple separated by a divided city. I've read the first part of the script, and I'm told they're still in casting, haven't started filming yet. I'd hoped to get an invitation to visit the set or even better, where they'll be filming, but now..." he grimaced and spread a hand. "I'm not sure what will happen. It's lousy timing."

"It is," she said sympathetically. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Not unless you can run the ConcertMaster software and finish the score."

She smiled. "Afraid not." In the warm glow of the table lamps, he looked exhausted, slowly turning over the pages of hand written notation on the fall board. "I'm sorry."

He let the page drop. "Yes. So am I. It was not an experience I'd care to repeat."

"You don't have any idea what the guy was after?"

"Not a clue. But Christine, it was someone from that theater down in Denver, where Carla worked, years ago."

She stared at him. "Whatever was he doing here, then? You said it'd been years?"

"Four or five," he said dully and sat the empty mug on a stack of scribbled sheets. "That was good." He dragged a hand through his lank hair. "I feel like hell. Meds must be wearing off, I'm sorry. God, I'd love to have a shower and some decent sleep."

 _End of *that* conversation._ "Can you take one? I mean, with your shoulder and all?"

"Yes. I just have to keep the area dry. Khan said he'd stop by later."

Christine frowned. "Does he need to? I mean, is there anything I can do instead? He looked pretty much dead on his feet."

"They were short-handed before the storm hit, I think, and it just got worse afterwards." He stood carefully. "Where is that sack from the hospital? Khan said there were supplies in it."

She rose and collected their mugs. "It's by the door. Hang on; I'll get it." He nodded and headed unsteadily down the hallway.

* * *

He hadn't wanted her to see him, had not wanted the forced intimacy, but it had become readily apparent that no amount of painful twisting would allow him to be able to adequately cover the healing stitches.

The hot water ran over his chilled skin, sluicing away the hospital smell and sticky feeling. Christine…her hands had felt good on his back, her gentle touch, the soothing stroke across his scarred flesh as she taped down the waterproof bandage to protect the wounds on his shoulder. He felt himself stir and tried to ignore it. Even if she were willing, this was not the night. He was exhausted and in pain, and Khan would kill him for tearing his stitches. Maybe she could be on top…

 _Bad idea, Erik. Think of something else. It's never going to happen._

He wished he could lean against the wall and let it all wash away, down the drain, to be gone. _Seeing as to how he's dead._ Dead...Buquet was dead at his hands, the catalyst no matter what the actual cause. Nausea rose, his skin icy despite the heat of the shower.

How could he even think to touch her with those hands.

But she was here now, in his house, and he vowed not to lose her again.

* * *

Christine rose on her toes, sneaking a glimpse into the slightly opened oven door. The biscuit topping on the creamy chicken and vegetable mixture was browning nicely. Luckily he'd had everything needed for a quick casserole, a mock pot-pie. She could make sure he was fed and then be on her way.

The kitchen had warmed, the heat from the floor registers combining with the warmth of the oven. Homely, soothing smells reached out to greet him. Christine had found a pencil somewhere and twisted her long hair into a ballerina's knot. Delicate strands, too short for the twist, curled deliciously on the tender nape of her neck. Erik forced his shoulders to relax and entered.

"You're baking?"

She flushed. "I thought I'd find us something for dinner. You said the hospital food wasn't that great, and there was some chicken in the freezer, so… I hope you don't mind. It will give you enough for some leftovers."

"Thank you," he said quietly. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but it wasn't necessary."

"I like cooking," she said defensively. "When I was a teenager my mom got sick with cancer, breast cancer. She had chemo and couldn't eat for months; the smell of food just made her nauseated, so I became the family chef."

"Did she recover?" He cast about for something safe to say, but she looked away.

"Yes, but they died later on in the car accident. At least it gave them a few more years together."

"You told me that, I think. I'm sorry."

Erik sat carefully at the kitchen table and she bit her lip, turning back to the sink. He'd replaced the awkward surgical mask with one of his own, the ivory-white plastic mask. It did little to hide the dark circles around his eyes or the bruising along his jaw. His hair, still damp from the shower, sprang back crispy from his forehead and he'd found a zippered dark grey fleece and sweatpants—she'd never seen the man look so informal. His bony hands were clasped loosely on the table, the broken skin on his swollen knuckles and a deep laceration across one palm easily visible. It was a wonder he'd not broken a finger in the fight.

She wanted to hold those hands in her own, to soothe away the pain.

She'd found him standing before the mirror, his shirt and the sling discarded on the edge of the bed. Bandaging covered the upper part of his left shoulder, deep bruising blotching the pale skin around the edges. She blanched. "That looks awful."

"And it was my good side, too," he said with a dry attempt at humor. His right hand supported the left elbow, knuckles white. "How does it look?"

Christine smiled despite herself, at the attempt to lighten the mood. She kept her eyes from lingering on the deep scars on his back and torso, focusing on the the shoulder. "I don't see any streaky redness or swelling, so the antibiotics must be working well."

"They should be; I was on an IV for days. Can you find the waterproof patches in the bag?'

She'd found them, laying them out and opening the packaging. He'd applied the first one himself, draping it over the wound covering and pressing down the edges with a wince. She'd offered to do the other to prevent him from twisting and pulling at the stitches.

It was the first time she'd touched him since that night and now it was all she wanted to do.

Christine wiped her hands dry and joined him at the table, then gently touched the back of one hand, turning it over. He flinched, and she flushed. "I'm sorry. Did that hurt?"

"No."

Christine rose from the table and returned a moment later with the bag of supplies from the hospital. "I saw some ointment in here. Please...let me take care of your hands now that you've had a shower."

"I don't..."

"Please."

A muscle in his jaw twitched but Erik said nothing as she pulled the chair around the corner. Her fingers were soft and warm, cradling his, gently smoothing antibiotic ointment over the broken skin. She wrapped a length of roller gauze around the cut and tied it off with a neat knot. Erik flexed his hand experimentally and nodded his approval. She grinned shakily, the soaring feeling from his touch intense. "I was a Girl Scout, too." She had not missed the way his fingers had so briefly tightened over hers, then released them.

"Christine, I..." Those dark, intense eyes bored into hers and he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, bare where the fleece collar was open, the the hollow of his throat just visible. She clenched her fists beneath the table.

"Yes?"

But whatever he'd meant to say was lost in the chime of the doorbell, then a slam and stomp of boots. "Erik?"

He leaned back with a sigh, the mood broken. "Khan," he muttered. "Of course." then raised his voice. "In the kitchen!"

The doctor's dark head poked around the corner. "Ms. Daae! Good to see you you. Erik?"

"I'm fine, Nadir, have a seat," he said irritably. "Christine was just about to force me to eat. She's been nurse-maiding me."

"Hardly 'force'," she said hotly, then stopped at Khan's charming smile.

"It smells delightful, especially for a crusty old bachelor like myself. What's in the oven?"

"Chicken pie." She flushed. Was he following dietary rules? Could he eat it? Should she offer? "Chicken, vegetables, butter, biscuit topping, seasonings, some milk and flour for the gravy." She recited the ingredients on her fingers.

"Sounds wonderful," he beamed. "I hope there is enough for three?"

Christine nodded and Erik glared. "So you're inviting yourself?"

"Of course! _You're_ not going to ask." He smiled. "And I've come prepared to spend the night as well. We'll see how you do. I'm sure you'll need help with a shower at some point."

"I've already had one. Christine helped me with the bandages," Erik snapped. "I'm perfectly capable of spending the night without supervision."

"Oho, indeed? Did she now?" Khan grinned, looking between the two of them and Erik threw up his hands, muffling an oath at the pain. "How did it look?"

Having decided that Khan was teasing, Christine began pulling glasses and bowls down from the cabinets. "I did, yes, but nothing exciting," she told the doctor. "It—the shoulder—looked fine to me, no redness or swelling. I think he just needs some sleep." She set the table.

"Erik always needs sleep," Khan informed her. "He's always at his worst when he's sleep-deprived."

"So I've noticed." She grabbed the oven mitts and deposited the casserole on the table as Erik huffed.

"Don't be a curmudgeon, Erik, it doesn't become you." Khan reached for the serving spoon. "And eat up. You might need for energy for other things later."

Christine seated herself and smothered a giggle at the masked man's outraged expression.

* * *

It had been a good evening, she decided. She'd put away the few leftovers in the refrigerator and started the dishwasher over Erik's protestations. She'd given Dr. Khan a hug goodbye after he'd held her coat and whispered a thank you, holding her hands and smiling at her with twinkling black eyes. Erik had walked her to the door and hesitated, before something shuttered behind his eyes and he simply said goodbye, watching as she navigated the treacherous walkway to her car. She'd felt herself smiling on the drive home.

Erik couldn't be too angry, she decided, sitting back at her dining table and completing homework. He'd been about to say something before Dr. Khan arrived. But what? Even if it was goodbye, at least they had moved past the awkwardness of that awful night. She slid the notebook into the backpack and zipped it up. Maybe they could still be friends.

Laundry then the evening news and bed, and she must remember to call Meg tomorrow.

Thursday morning dawned clear and cold, the storm having passed on to wreak havoc in other states. No doubt Canada would send them another gift soon, but for now she would enjoy the pale sunlight. Classes had gone well, she'd held her own in an intense discussion over environmental influences in art with a man whose arrogant drawl often irritated, and received back a paper with positive comments. On the south library lawn a group of students were busily engaged building a series of Calvin and Hobbes style snowmen and she'd paused to take photos. Meg would love them, and even Erik might crack a smile.

Meg had texted back mid-morning sounding frazzled and Christine had suggested meeting for dinner. The roads were good, she was caught up on projects for the moment, and a road trip sounded perfect. Christine backed the Honda from under the awning, humming as she headed toward the freeway.

* * *

"The scallops, please, in the white wine butter sauce, with asparagus. And a glass of Chardonnay."

The waiter nodded and turned to Christine, his pen poised. "And for you?"

Christine gave the menu one final frown. "Just a salad, please, the Caesar with chicken. Iced tea."

"Thank you."

The waiter smiled toothily and departed. The moment he was gone Meg leaned forward and grabbed her friend's hand. "Say you'll be my Maid of Honor. Say it."

"Of course! I thought I already was. But what..."

Meg squeezed her hand and leaned back with a sigh. "Oh thank god. I'm so glad. I told Mom I'd already asked you and you'd said yes."

"You did," Christine said, amused, "back when we were ten. And you'll be mine, best friend, if I ever get married. But what's going on?"

The drinks arrived and Meg took a big gulp of the chilled wine. Christine frowned. "Hey, take it easy there. You have to drive back."

"I'll just have the one. Jesus, this wedding is going to turn me into an alcoholic, I swear."

"Don't ever say that," she answered sharply. "Remember your dad."

"And your parents, I know. I'm joking. I think." She squeezed Christine's fingers again and gave her a watery smile. "But this wedding, I swear to god, Chris, I just want to grab Brian and go down to City Hall and get it over with."

"Why don't you?"

"Mom will kill me," Meg said grimly. "And Brian's mom won't be far behind. You know he's an only child, right, well his mom didn't have a daughter to fuss over so she's taking it out on me. She's the Bridezilla here. And my Mom is making me try on all these gowns. Not dresses, freaking _gowns_ , like with a train and a veil and everything, and that's so not me." She took another sip of wine. "Like, I haven't even qualified for a white dress in years and she's pretending that isn't a thing and I just am about to scream. And now my cousin Lorelei is wanting to be in the party as my Maid of Honor, and I'll kill myself first, I swear I will." She took a ragged breath.

"Lori? She probably wants to wear something scandalous to try to show you up."

"Probably," Meg muttered. "Bitch."

Christine grinned. "Hey, if you two want to elope I'll cover for you."

"I know you would. And don't think we haven't considered it." She brightened. "Hey, did I tell you that Brian found us a house?"

The food arrived and they took a minute to arrange napkins and savor the first bites. "I thought you were going to move into his condo?" Christine continued.

Meg shook her blond curls. "We were, but they're raising the rent again and he thinks it's stupid to keep putting money into that place when we could be building equity." She put down the fork, gesturing with her hands. "It's a real house, Chris, like with a yard and everything. Trees. Sidewalks. Three bedrooms up and one down, and two-and-a-half baths. A real kitchen! And a porch for the summer!"

"All two months of it!" Christine laughed. "Four bedrooms, though? You planning on popping out the babies?"

She waved a fork airily. "Maybe someday. You know Brian was an only child—he wants a big family. But we'll see. For now we can use the extra space for a studio for me and an office for him."

"Sounds great! We'll have to throw you a house warming."

"Don't you dare! You know we both have a ton of stuff already. Just sorting it all will be a pain. I don't even want a shower but Mother is insisting. It's a chance to invite all of her friends and pay back some social debts. Polish up the silver, have the staff make little snacky things on trays...you know the drill."

Christine grinned. "Yep." Growing up the girls had often hidden in the kitchen, filching finger sandwiches and petit fours from carefully arranged trays in order to go hide out in Meg's tree house and have their own tea.

She speared another bite of lettuce. "So where's the house?"

"Northwest of town. Nice new subdivision, and we can afford it."

"Any land?"

"Three acres. Brian likes the space and I like the privacy. No fences out there either, just green space and woods between the houses. Even with the traffic it's only half an hour downtown, with that new bypass loop."

"I can't wait to see it."

"You will, as soon as we can agree on paint. Oh, expect a shower invite soon." She grimaced. "And be ready for Lori to show up and coo over everything."

"I'll throw you one here. Get me the names and contacts for your buddies at the Ballet and we'll do a party. Get you some shocking unmentionables."

"Oh lord, that's another thing. Mother wants to take me shopping for a trousseau. Like it's the 1880s or something. I can _not_ go shopping for lacy thongs with my mother. I just can't."

Christine choked on laughter. "God no. Okay, next trip we'll go search for something racy. Gotta give Brian a heart attack on the wedding night."

Meg grinned. "Ain't nothing he hasn't seen before, but thanks, Chris, you're an angel."

* * *

It was all the fault of the family cinnamon rolls that Christine found herself staring into the glassy eyes of a freshly-caught trout, reclining on a bed of ice. She'd been unable to shake the craving for Grammy Della's handmade rolls, a treat as far back as she could remember, but the recipe called for special flour her local grocery store did not carry, and thus she'd found herself at the Uptown Market. The fish reminded her of Erik's comment in the car, how he'd meant to try that sauce recipe again, but over trout. And here were trout.

She bought four.

* * *

Erik was not sure which was more irritating-the stitches, which itched abominably, or that the passage simply would not come right. That the stitches even itched was a good sign, healing tissue, knitting itself slowly together. The torn flesh was too tender to rub to ease the aggravation, however, and Khan had ordered him to let the wounds air and heal.

No, it was the passage that was truly the problem.

He paced, dragging the good hand down his uncovered face in frustration. His inner ear had failed him, the ability to hear the different sections of the orchestration and voices, to separate the lines of melody and harmony, point and counterpoint, support and swell, echoes overlaid. It had been so easy at first, to write the man's theme, pouring all of his loss and anger, his longing, into that dark and somber motif, but the woman's answering part was proving impossible. He simply didn't know how the script ended, didn't know how her answer should sound.

At times like this he wanted a drink, wanted the feel the burn of expensive scotch and the slight easing of frustration.

 _Not an option._

A buzzing and vibration interrupted his thoughts. On the piano lid, amplified by the hollow beneath, his phone demanded attention. Angrily Erik swiped the screen. "Yes?"

"Erik? This is Christine." Instantly the cold wave of adrenaline blanked the anger at being interrupted.

"Yes? Christine? Is everything alright?"

He heard her smile through the connection. "Yes. It's all good. I have a free night tonight, and I thought...would you like to have dinner, maybe?"

He gave the scribbled sheets an irritated glance. "Christine, I have not been cleared to drive yet. I cannot meet you anywhere."

"Oh, that's no problem. If it's okay, I can come over there. I'll cook—I was at the Uptown Market this afternoon and they had trout, and I remembered what you'd said about trying it again, so I bought enough for us both. They're already filleted, too."

He hesitated but the mug of cold coffee caught his eye, a reminder he'd not eaten that day, and his stomach grumbled in protest. "That would be...yes," he said firmly. "I would. However, I may have a favor to ask of you as well, when you get here."

"Oh?" Intrigued, Christine leaned forward over the counter, arching an eyebrow. "Should I be worried? Or bring anything?"

"Nothing like that. Will 5:00 work, or is that too early?"

"That's fine. I'll see you then."

* * *

"No no no, that's not it." Erik seized a pencil and drew a heavy line through a section. "Try it from measure 34, but leave out the next two lines. No lyrics, just let the piano talk. And relax your shoulders."

Christine straightened from where she leaned against the curve of the grand, secretly enjoying watching the man, energized and temperamental as he'd not been since the autumn, his dark eyes snapping beneath a fierce frown and hands graceful on the keyboard as they worked through the music he'd temporarily dubbed "Elza's Song." Every now and then he'd flinch as the shoulder pulled in obvious discomfort but he seemed otherwise oblivious, stopping to correct a phrase, to ask her to alter pacing and tone, or rewriting entire sections as their voices melded together.

Erik had met her at the door in dark trousers and a white shirt, sleeves rolled back above bony wrists, fire scarring just visible at the edge of the right cuff, hair rumpled and vibrating with impatience. He'd had a new idea for the score, telling her about it as he hovered about the kitchen. Dinner had been quick and easy, delicate fish and lemony broiled vegetables, with butter and crusty bread from the store's bakery and a chilled white wine. Erik had been unusually talkative, summarizing the screenplay and then pulling her into the living room to play the solo for Enzo, a somber sad passage of longing that made her throat close up with its despairing minor chords. Elza's piece was also heavy, and Christine had shaken her head, frowning, and Erik had nodded her her expression.

"You see my problem."

She picked up the page, studying the lyrics. "Can I make a suggestion? I mean, I know I'm not a musician, but..."

"Please."

"Well, shouldn't it contrast somewhat? You'd said her character was trying to be supportive. I mean, yes, she's sad, she misses him, she's worried, but she's not going to make him feel worse. Shouldn't she be trying to, I don't know, be positive, be hopeful?"

Those black eyes bored into hers, then he turned to the score. "Yes." He ruffled the pages, pulling one forward, and played a passage, altering it a little more each time, brighter, faster. He thrust it into her hands. "Sing it."

"Me?"

"You. Sing it. I need to hear it, hear her voice."

They'd worked for more than an hour until Christine's voice faltered and went scratchy, unable to reach the top notes, and he'd called a break. Singing together had been exhilarating, exciting in a new way, standing behind him at the bench with one hand on his good shoulder for balance as she leaned forward to turn the pages, the ridges of the old burn scars palpable under her hand. Erik would stop abruptly to edit and correct the lines, singing along with her in places to harmonize or add a counter melody, and the joy of hearing that amber rich voice again made her shiver and strive to match his, to fill the room.

"That's enough for tonight." He closed the score and turned, looking up at Christine appraisingly. "You're surprisingly good for a non-singer. With a little work you'd be quite good. Care to change majors at this late date?"

Christine laughed and dropped down on the sofa, one hand on her chest. "Nope. Can't afford it and there are no jobs out there anyway. I'd best stick with teaching, but I really enjoyed this, Erik."

"Enough to do it again?" The tentative hope in his voice decided the answer for her.

"Of course. Any time. Well, any time I don't have a test to study for. Or a project due."

"Agreed." He swung around on the bench. "I need to give the shoulder a break anyhow. Let me work on this a bit, firm it up, and then if you're up to it, I'll bribe you with dinner for another session" There was such raw hope in his eyes she smiled and nodded.

"I'd love that."

"In the mean time, let's get you some tea, or something else warm for your throat."

Christine stood. "I'd love to, but I can't stay long. It's getting late and I've got to go. Haven't touched the note cards for tomorrow."

"Then one for the road. Take a mug...you can return it later. Get your car started warming and I'll start the water."

But in those few minutes apart he'd become stiff again, offering her the cup of tea—decaf, she noted—his emotions hidden once more behind the formal tone and posture. Erik took her hand at the door, his long fingers lingering on the smooth leather of the blue glove, then released them abruptly.

"Goodnight, Christine, and thank you." She'd nodded, ducking her head in confusion, and stepped into the frigid darkness.

On the way home, her phone began to ring.

* * *

"Room 302. Elevators to your right." The receptionist looked up from her screen with a smile.

"Thanks." Christine took a tighter trip on the vase and began walking through the lobby.

She hesitated in the doorway, the sight catching breath. Martha Valerius lay still in the darkened room, white hair spread on the blue paper pillow, her face turned toward the window, looking suddenly frail. The elderly lady turned as Christine's shadow blocked the light from the hallway, and smiled tiredly.

"Hello, my dear. I'm so glad you came." She held out a shaking hand and Christine took it gently. "Thank you so much for the lovely flowers. Such bright colors."

Christine released her hand and set the flowers carefully on the bedside table, where they could easily be seen, and pulled up a chair. "I'm so sorry...I got your message and came as soon as I could. What happened?"

"It's my own fault, I'm afraid," she said fretfully, adjusting the plastic tubing of the IV line taped to one bare arm. "My dear, can you…?" She tugged at the thin blanket and Christine pulled it up about her shoulders, tucking it in. "Thank you so much. These hospital gowns...where was I? Oh yes. It was my own fault; I knew better than to go out in that weather, but the paper was lying just beyond the stairs and I thought...I held the railing so carefully, but my feet must have gone out from under me, and… My neighbor saw it and saved me. She said I hit my head on the step when I fell, so she called the ambulance and covered me up with her coat until it arrived."

Christine blanched. "I'm so sorry—that sounds awful! Are you okay?"

"It's my hip, that dratted hip, you know. They sent me for x-rays and think I've hurt it. Perhaps just knocked the hardware loose, but maybe… They've given me something for the pain but..." She trailed off.

"Dr. V, that's awful. Is your head ok, where you fell?"

"They say it's fine, just sore. No breaks or concussion. Not even frostbite, thank the Lord. I just seem to have a screw loose."

Christine rallied a smile at the feeble joke. "What do you need me to do?"

She gestured at the nightstand. "Please, my dear, would you take my purse and keep it safe? I don't want anything to happen to it here when I'm asleep or in surgery. And will you feed Desdemona for me? She'll be so worried. My daughter is coming in, but the weather and all, you know...I don't know when she'll be able to get here. My keys are in the purse. I've already given them my insurance card and everything, so I don't need it. But I'd love to have some things from the house—my toothbrush and hair brush, my slippers—I made a list." She pointed at the nightstand and Christine lifted the folded paper, nodding.

"I'll find it all, I promise, and bring it up. And I'll take care of Dez, too. Don't worry."

"I won't, my dear, now that you're here. I know you'll do your best." She patted Christine's hand. "Say a prayer for me, while you're at it. I can use all the help I can get right now." She shifted slightly in the bed, pain clouding her eyes. "And please...there is an address book by my desk. Would you please call the people on the list as well, so they know? There's so much I was planning to do this week...must cancel the book club, and Thursday is my volunteer day at the Outreach...and then there's the Altar Guild…and…please let them all know?"

Tears were welling up in her eyes, as Christine nodded. "Of course. Anything else?"

Martha Valerius looked up with trembling lips. "Keep me in your thoughts, my dear. I'm not looking forward to more surgery at my age."

* * *

Sinatra swirled about the room.

 _Erik, you're a fool._

 _We're better off friends, Khan._

His mug, untouched, grew cold by the waning fire.

* * *

.

Thank you for reading, and for sticking with the story! I seem to be over the writer's block and have the next chapter half-way completed, so with any luck I can post it next Friday. Please review and share, it makes the hours worthwhile and encourages the authors!

~R


	29. Chapter 29 Answers and More Questions

**A/N** —Thanks for your reviews from the last update! Things are starting to happen again with our characters...I hope you enjoy the chapter!

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The Measure of a Man

Chp 29 Answers and More Questions

2019

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The shoulder pulled and ached far too much for the violin, a fact that frustrated Erik more than any other aspect of his recovery. Khan had cleared him to drive, but the weather remained uncooperative and he had no real desire to venture out of doors, not while the music plagued him. Elza's Song was completed, the orchestrations falling slowly into place. Soon, hopefully, he could send the set of three and receive confirmation that he would indeed be hired to continue the soundtrack.

Indie film or no, a return to the industry was what he desperately needed, even coming on the heels of a contract for another video game sound-scape. The short pieces bored him but paid the bills. Oddly enough it was music he'd written for a video game that had intrigued the director and caused the man to contact his agent.

The entire process this time had been backwards, providing songs for the characters before the filming had even started, but apparently there had been some disagreement with the prior composer. Should the man like these preliminary pieces, he'd need to meet with the music editor and discuss the timing notes and view the film, once it was completed, then finalize the score...there was a great deal still to be done.

Assuming he was hired, of course. He'd been out of the business a long time.

* * *

The summer term would be hell but it left the autumn open for Seminar and the start of her Master's Thesis. Thesis hours for research, of course, and Methodology of Historical Research was a necessity as was Historiography. Christine bit her thumb. She'd need to take the language proficiency exam at some point in the next year, to demonstrate the ability to read primary source material, so Field Readings also. She checked the electives, Professional Development, and Field Prep off the list, those prerequisites done, and next fall would be more thesis hours, with Colloquium in the spring.

She could do it. She just wouldn't have a life.

The email with her requests for summer term and the Year 2 plan was headed to her advisor, who no doubt wouldn't see it until Monday. Christine pushed back the laptop and notepad, stretching her back until it popped. Enrollment sheets weren't due for two more days, but she had a good start on it and all classes were open at this point. The next tuition payment was due before spring break, so that needed to be arranged as well. There were papers to complete in her art and archaeology classes, and a set of note cards for upcoming exams in Euro.

It would have been much easier to have stayed at home.

She'd had a nice classroom, a subject and students she enjoyed, and a circle of friends. The events of two years back had shaken her world and she'd leapt at the chance to distance herself from the memories. A Master's degree with the promise of higher pay and a new start at the high school had sounded like the adult thing to do, a break between her old life and this one she'd been thrust into on her own.

 _You need to eat_ , she told herself firmly. _Eat, and maybe go down to the condo's exercise room in the clubhouse. You need to get out of the house and do something with yourself._ The flyer for summer travel study courses caught her eye, propped against a wooden bowl in the counter and she folded it away in a drawer. _But not that. Maybe in a few years._

The Field Research class meant a trip to France at some point, though, and she'd better start thinking about it sooner rather than later. Today had French homework first, and with a sigh Christine refilled her water bottle bottle and pulled the notebook from her backpack.

An hour later the passages were proving difficult and after several more minutes of thumbing through a worn dictionary and copying lines into Google Translate, she sat back, rubbing her temples. The TA never answered texts or calls on the weekends, and she hated disturbing classmates she barely knew.

But Erik knew French, had lived there. He would probably know these idioms and their double meanings, and it was a good excuse to call.

She reached for the phone.

* * *

"Come see Dr. Martin and he will help you with the evil homework, and then Erik will play for you afterwards, if you have been good."

Christine grinned across the room. "You're in a good mood today."

His dark rich laughter sent butterflies winging their flight through her veins. "I do believe I have finally completed the theme, the one for them both. I'll even play it for you while you're here, if you'd like."

"I would like, yes. And yes, I'll be over after dinner."

"Why not come earlier? I owe you for the casserole the other night, and I had been planning Parmesan potatoes, winter asparagus, and petite fillets." His voice went smooth and enticing and the butterflies danced. Damn the man.

"What can I bring?"

"Nothing but yourself, lovely lady."

 _Damn_ the man. "Fine. What time?"

"Will five work? I need to get home first."

She heard the faint sounds of turn signal and engine. "You're driving? Yay!"

"I am indeed." He sounded pleased and she smiled.

"Five it is, then. And thanks!"

* * *

The dark royal blue dress had always been a favorite in her teaching wardrobe, a smooth wool with princess seams that was both warm and flattering, reserved for Open House nights and the occasional winter date. Christine pulled it out and eyed it appraisingly. She didn't want to look dressed up, but also meant to get his attention. The dress had never failed her.

 _Get back into the saddle, Christine._ Her father's words echoed and she smiled. Get back in the saddle, his advice for everything she'd ever failed. The first two-wheeler crash, the muffed recital, the wobbly pirouettes, the poor grade on a test. Get back in the saddle and try it again. Think it through. You can do it.

Approaching the university counseling services had been one of the most agonizingly stressful events of her life, but the seated receptionist hadn't blinked, had not given her the judgmental look Christine had been fearing, had simply told her which hallway to take. The waiting room was done in cheerful warm colors and nature prints, more like a home than a hospital, and the psychologist, a woman not much older than herself, had been friendly without being forceful.

Five sessions in, she'd asked if Christine wanted to let that one afternoon define all of her future relationships. It had been a hard question, one she'd not been willing to face. It had been a harrowing night of nightmares, rising bleary-eyed and angry the next morning. No, she did not. From there they'd moved forward. Meg had been proud, when she'd called.

Suede flats, warm dark tights, hair simply pulled back on the sides, a touch of make up...and a secret weapon, Grammy Della's Sinful Cinnamon Rolls. Fresh from the oven, warm with spices and slathered with cream cheese icing, they were a heart-attack inducing indulgence. So far, no one had been able to resist them. Erik would be the next victim, hopefully. The man needed a treat. Even if the relationship didn't work out, even if they only became friends, she would no longer be at the mercy of the past. _Back in the saddle, Chrissie._ She snapped down the plastic lid and tucked it into the bottom of her bag. To Erik's house, then. Dinner, French, and dessert.

The aching sadness of _Empty Chairs at Empty Tables_ met her at his door, and she waited until the last strains had faded before touching the bell. Erik bowed her in, in his reserved way, taking the bag and backpack, still favoring the left shoulder as he hung her coat.

Christine smoothed the dress and shook her hair, turning quickly enough to see the look in his eyes before the casual mask dropped back into place. "You are a treat for the eyes, Ms Daae."

She smiled at him. "Thank you! Was that Les Miz? That's one of my favorites."

"Ah yes. Your French homework reminded me. I used to get requests for musicals on Karaoke nights when I was playing piano bar."

"Lucky them," she said lightly.

He raised an eyebrow and she followed him into the kitchen, where he pulled out a chair. "Sit, and tell Dr. Martin all about it."

Heads together, they worked on the translations exercises with Erik patiently explaining idioms and subtle meanings, leaning over her shoulder to correct a phrase and to demand Christine read aloud. He'd dressed casually, the dark green turtleneck and wool trousers, that faint spicy scent of of aftershave or soap just discernible when she leaned closer. _Definitely distracting._ She had a brief moment of sympathy for her former students.

Erik rose with reluctance. "Work on that last bit while I start dinner." Christine nodded obediently, frowning at the passage as he pushed back pristine shirt cuffs and removed his watch, laying it carefully on a dish in the window, followed by the gold and onyx ring. A souvenir, he'd told her, from the years in Paris, found in an antiques store. Dinner would be quick, and then if she was willing, they would sing together.

The shutters had come down in his eyes again, and he was deliberately light, bantering with her as he moved about the kitchen sautéing mushrooms, blanching asparagus, warming rolls, and sliding a sheet of diced potatoes into the lower oven. The steaks were ribeyes, which he put under the broiler and glared at.

"Wouldn't a grill be the way to go?"

"I have thought about purchasing one. There is certainly space for it on the patio, but it would mean bringing food up the stairs, and it seemed pointless for one person," he shrugged.

She dropped the pencil, rolling her head. "I am tired of translations and my neck is killing me. I've been bent over the laptop for ages today, with enrollment and all."

Erik shot the steaks a swift look, did some rapid mental math and gritted his teeth. Christine arched her back, her eyes shut, and raised her hands, punching her neck with her knuckles. "Ow."

The steaks be damned. "Put your head down."

"What?"

"Do it."

"Oooo."

He swept the her gently aside, making a second pass to collect the last few stray curls. Her skin was warm, the wool dress pleasantly textured, and Erik dug in his thumbs to the hard muscles between her shoulder blades. The breathy gasp made his stomach jump. Erik knew the strength in his hands, avoiding the delicate bones of her shoulder blades and spine, and instead working his way up the tight muscles to her scalp, running his fingers up her neck and into her soft hair, pressing and rubbing tiny circles, working on pressure points until he felt her go limp under his hands.

His fingers, cold and bony, were sending tremors to her core, and not just from the blessed relief of the easing tension in her muscles. "That feels heavenly," she murmured. The hands stilled on her shoulders, then squeezed gently. She covered one hand with her own. "Thank you."

A dull flush darkened the sharp cheekbone as Erik turned away, concealing the restless longing of his hands in the oven mitts. "You're quite welcome. Good to know I retained something from all those months of physical therapy," he said lightly. "Forgive me, but I must check on the steaks." He pulled the pan from beneath the heat as Christine rose and busied herself clearing the table of books and papers.

The steaks were a perfect medium rare after they had rested a few minutes, the seasoned potatoes tender-crisp, the red wine a perfect accompaniment. Erik sat across the table, eating slowly and methodically and saying little, his dark eyes fastened on her face. Eating in the prosthetic took concentration, she knew, the edges pulling on his damaged skin. Had there had not been sufficient time between his spur of the moment invitation and her arrival to remove it? He seemed content to listen as she described her current classes, summer enrollment plans, and her trip to visit Martha Valerius. Daughter Elaine had arrived in town the morning before and Christine had met her, taking the worried woman to her childhood home. She'd offered profuse thanks while getting her mother's car keys and dropping off luggage, before heading over to the hospital. The elderly woman had been resting comfortably at the last update. "She promised to let me know how it goes. I'm glad she's here; I was a bit uncomfortable with all that but she really had no one else."

"I remember her," Erik said thoughtfully. "She and her husband always attended the faculty events at the university." He savored the last bite of cinnamon roll. "These are no doubt ruinous to the arteries and probably also bad for one's voice, but they are very very good."

She grinned. "Thanks. Also ruinous to the waistline, but they are a rare treat these days. I'm glad you liked them."

It was not until they'd moved into the living room that Erik told her in short, clipped sentences that he'd had contact with the police, that they'd closed the case without needing further involvement on his part. He lowered the glasses to the coffee table and knelt to put a match to the fire.

Christine settled onto the corner of the sofa. "I'm glad it's over. The whole thing was so awful."

"Yes." He swirled the last of the wine around the glass, frowning into the flames. "I've replaced the French doors downstairs and had the security company out to re-wire the sensors, so I suppose it's over. It rankles, though. I would be interested to know what he was after."

She tilted her head. "You said the intruder was someone from the theater. Have you been down there recently, talked to anyone? Decided you had things worth stealing?"

Those intense black eyes locked on hers. "The purse."

"What?"

"The purse. Carla's purse, the one from the box, on that night I...you remember."

Christine nodded. "Yes."

"It's the only thing different. Where is it?"

She flushed. "I put it away. Just scooped everything back in it and hid it; it was upsetting you so much."

"Where is it?"

She gestured. "That storage room. I put it on a shelf, kind of behind a box. I meant to tell you, but..." Erik was already moving down the stairs and returned a minute later holding the chain strap by his fingertips, lips compressed. He dropped it on the table as if contaminated, then with an effort, dumped the contents. Wallet, phone, a pen and keys tumbled out, the lipstick rolling away, tissues fluttering to the floor. He dragged a trashcan near.

One by one he lifted the crumbling tissues, ignoring the blotted coral kisses. and dropped them into the bin, reflexively wiping his fingers on his trouser leg, then reached for the keys next, frowning.

"Odd."

"What?" Christine had come to sit beside him, nervously unsure at his emotionless response.

"These aren't hers. Hers were in her car."

She shot him a swift look, but Erik's face was rigidly expressionless. He set the keys aside and reached for the lipstick, opening and twisting the base. Christine wrinkled her nose at the cloying scent and then frowned. "I wonder if that was hers?"

"Why?"

"Wasn't she a redhead? That lipstick is pink. It's wrong. Redheads almost never wear pink. And...the tissues...the color is different, like an orange-y coral color."

"Hmm. You're right." Erik closed the cap and picked up the wallet, flicking it open. "This was hers, though." He removed the photos, laying them face down on the table, and systematically examined the wallet. "Nothing else here, just a few receipts and the cash."

Christine had been examining the purse and at his quizzical glance, shook her head. "Nothing here either, just a purse. No rips in the lining, nothing else inside. It's not even old or valuable, just a fancy purse, like you'd use for an evening out." She set it down as he nodded.

That left the phone. Erik turned it over in his hand, frowning, then pressed the power button. Nothing happened. "Dead, of course. Probably been dead for years. I wonder..."

"Hmm?"

"Well, I don't recognize this, either. Doesn't mean it wasn't hers; god knows Carla had her secrets. But I wonder if I have a charger somewhere that would fit it?"

"It's old," Christine observed.

"Yes, but chargers are chargers." He swept the items into the box. "I'll contact the theater in the morning and ask about these other things. Should have done it weeks ago, but..." he shrugged. "I didn't. Didn't even think about it until today." He rose and pocketed the phone. "I'll dig around in the workroom; I think I have a box of electronics somewhere in there." He rose and lifted the box. "Back in a minute or two."

Christine nodded, carrying their wine glasses back into the kitchen. After dinner tea would be nice, but maybe later. The black piano's lid was lifted to the lower brace point and the usual untidy piles of sheet music had been stacked neatly. With luck he'd still be willing to play. She began loading the dishwasher.

His steps were slower returning, moving into the living room. Erik dropped another log on the fire and pushed it toward the back of the grate, pushing ashes aside for more air. Sparks shot upwards as the coals glowed brighter, and he drew the screen back into position, satisfied.

"Any luck with the phone? A charger, I mean?"

"No." He settled on the end chair and leaned back, crossing one leg at the ankle. "I haven't found one. Must have cleared out a lot of old things in the last few years; probably that box of electronics as well." He frowned into the fire. "It's probably not even hers. Not sure why I want to know, but dammit, it's hard to just let it go, when I think..." He shook his head, trailing off.

"It's hard when there's no real answers."

"Yes. I suppose. She was a deeply unhappy woman, Christine, always looking for something. For a while I thought she'd found it, in me. But then she was back to her usual tricks, another man, another party, another piece of jewelry, a car, another trip, just the right starring role."

"And she never found it?"

He shook his head wearily. "No. And in the end it wasn't enough. _I_ wasn't enough. I was spending far too much time away from her, I can see that now. Time practicing, time in the recording studio, working with other musicians, writing. My marriage was falling apart; it was easier to focus on something I was good at, where I was wanted."

"That still doesn't seem as if it would be a good reason to...to do that," Christine said quietly. "She had a career, had friends, I guess?"

"Oh yes. She was quite the party girl. What I don't understand is why this is all getting dragged up again. It was years ago." He drew a finger along the edge of the prosthetic then jerked his hand away, and she winced in sympathy. Erik fell silent, watching the fire crackle, then visibly roused himself.

"Enough of the past. Shall we?" He gestured at the piano.

"Yes!"

Christine leaned forward, listening as he played the introductory theme, transitioning into the lament that was Enzo's song. Her throat closed with aching sadness at the man's longing for someone he thought never to see again. Erik had caught it perfectly, the rough emotion, unabashed, and anger at the pointlessness of war.

"Wow," she said, blinking away tears.

"I'm glad you think so. That's the response I was hoping for." He shuffled pages. "Ready for Elza's Song?"

"I know the tune," she admitted, "but not all of the lyrics."

"Come stand behind me, then," he said easily, and she left the sofa. From here it was a different view, the graceful movements of those long-fingered hands ghosting over the keys, the tendons sharply outlined under the thin skin. The edges of the prosthetic, glued tightly against his face, were more clearly visible as were the darker lines disappearing under the edge of the hairpiece and down under his collar. Erik's hair was beginning to grey at the temples and along the path of the scarring, and the sudden wave of tenderness was nearly suffocating in the urge to wrap her arms around his shoulders and press her lips to his skin.

Christine folded her arms tightly against her body.

At his nod Christine began to sing Elza's response, her own voice deliberatively softer and sweet, infused with hope. The lyrics ended with a rising determination, matching Enzo's, that the lovers would meet again, and Erik finished the final phrase, letting the notes echo in the room.

"I loved that," she told him. "She sounds so fierce!"

Pleased, he looked up at her. "Bravi, my dear, you did well. Now, shall we tackle the last one?"

As Erik pulled up the third piece of music Christine perched on the end of the piano bench. "Scoot over, if you can. I can't see this well enough to sight read it." Obligingly he moved as she settled beside him.

"Don't worry about singing. Just listen and read the lyrics. Let me know what you think."

She nodded as he swept into the final piece and watched as his hands flashed across the keys, barely glancing at the notes. Somehow she had not realized Erik was both a composer and lyricist. He sang both parts and after the first verse Christine joined in, singing softly beside him.

When the last chord died away he turned to her with a questioning glance. "What do you think?"

"I like it! I think it's brilliant the way the two parts seem to answer each other even though they aren't together and have such different motifs."

"I'm fairly pleased with it as well," he admitted. "Enough so I think we can declare it complete." The dark eyes focused on her. "I thank you for you contributions."

"I didn't do anything," Christine protested.

"Ah, but every composer needs a muse," he said lightly. "Hearing it made a world of difference to me. But enough of that." He tucked the sheets into a portfolio. "Shall we sing?"

"I'd love to."

"Warm ups first. We should have done them already." Christine nodded, moving to the curve of the piano at his gesture. The exercises were simple ones, beginner level, but she stood and smiled at him as they ran through scales and intervals. The blue dress clung enticingly and he forced his mind back to the music.

"Any requests for the night?" Erik's fingers wandered through a variety of medleys. Neil Diamond, Barry Manilow, Linda Ronstadt, The Moody Blues, Simon and Garfunkel, Sarah McLachland, and Michael Bublé transitioned seamlessly into songs from musicals, followed by a sweeping blend of classics.

"How do you do that?" Christine laughed, her eyes sparkling down at him from the bend of the piano.

"Lots of practice," Erik said mournfully, but she saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth and grinned. "I had to provide background music a lot of the time, snippets of this and that, to get them in the mood to make suggestions." His fingers continued to move across the keyboard. "The things I had to do to make rent back then." He shook his head and Christine laughed.

"How about something I can actually sing with?"

"Name it and it is yours, lovely lady."

Christine felt herself blushing. "Nothing too hard or high. How about...can you do the Carpenters?"

Erik raised an eyebrow. "Of course."

She took a deep breath. "How about…" _Do it, Christine!_ "How about _I Know I Need to Be in Love_? My parents loved the Carpenters and those albums were always playing in our house," she said in a rush.

The roving hands rippled down into a new key and the black eyes focused on her. "It's a woman's song" he said easily. "Remember to drop your shoulders and relax your jaw."

She gave him a shaky grin and Erik nodded.

" _The hardest thing I've ever done is keep believing  
There's someone in this crazy world for me..._"

She focused on the painting over the mantle as she sang, the curve of Erik's shoulder just visible in the corner of her eye as the words rflowed atop his accompaniment, sweet and longing.

" _So here I am with pockets full of good intentions  
But none of them will comfort me tonight  
I'm wide awake at four a.m.  
Without a friend in sight  
Hanging on a hope, but I'm alrigh_t"

Erik brought the song to a close and she gave him a shaky smile. "How was it?"

"You would have won the prize on Karaoke night," he said lightly. "What shall we do next?"

"You choose."

"Ah, but I am tired of listening to myself." The words were light but there was a grim cast to his face that made her heart ache.

"Erik, I..." A muffled chiming disturbed the intensity of the moment.

"My phone," she said, flustered.

"Go get it." Behind her he continued playing softly as she crossed the room, Little River Band's hit _Lady_. _Nice_ , she thought, and reached into her purse, frowning at the unknown number.

"Hello?"

Erik's hands stilled on the keys at her sharp inhalation. Christine's shoulders hunched, her knuckles white on the small device. "Oh my god. No. No. Oh Elaine, I'm so sorry She was...yes, I know, we all thought….I will. Please. Let me know. Yes. And thanks for letting me know." She pressed the button and turned, her face pale and eyes brimming with tears. He stood, and as she blinked they began to trickle down her cheeks, shining in the soft light of the room.

"My dear, what's wrong?" he asked softly.

Christine shook her head, lips trembling. "That was Elaine, Dr. Valerius's daughter. She died about an hour ago. Never really came out of the anesthesia. Her heart, or maybe a stroke, they don't know yet." She made a choked sound and turned away, one hand rising to her face.

Erik crossed the room in three strides, reaching into his pocket and pressing the folded white handkerchief into her hands. "Oh my darling girl, don't cry." He touched her shoulder and Christine turned, shaking. "I'm sorry."

"Everyone I care about..." she choked, and he pulled her into his arms as she wept, saying nothing, simply holding her, stroking her hair.

She leaned against him, exhausted, and turned her face away from the damp, hot patch of once-pristine shirt. "Oh my dear, I am so sorry," he said softly and she looked up at him, lips trembling, and he brushed a tear away with his thumb with a sad smile of his own.

She had not been this close since that night, since the dance before it, the long lean lines of his body a solid reassurance and something more. Erik must have seen something shift in her eyes because he forced a pained smile and started to release her as Christine's grip tightened and she leaned in, raising her face.

But Erik stepped back, his face grown hard. "What are you doing, Christine?"

She balled her fists to stop them from trembling. "I wanted to kiss you."

"Christine, I...no. Don't play with me like this. Not after last time."

She faced him, voice shaking. "I'm not playing. And I'm sorry for that, I've tried to tell you, so many times, but I..."

"Oh, Khan told me," he snapped. "Not the details; he wouldn't do that. But enough." He turned away, gripping the back of the sofa. "Dammit, Christine, you could have…" He shook his head. "I can't do this again."

The tears were slipping down her face. "I'm sorry. I've kicked myself so many times for that night. It wasn't fair to either of us, and I'm sorry. I've been in some therapy, and I..."

"It doesn't matter," he said dully. "I'm glad you're getting some help. But I can't. You've had a shock, you're grieving, and I'm convenient. Just...don't. Leave me alone."

"I've been wanting to kiss you all night," she said quietly. "And a couple nights ago, when I was here. I'm just a coward, I didn't know if you'd...and I don't blame you. I'm a mess, I'm sorry."

He gave her a look of utter disbelief. "Really? Why? What about your young man?" he said bitterly.

"Raoul? We're not a thing. Haven't been for months."

Erik shook his head, caught between disbelief and anger.

"Do you want me?" Her voice was pleading and Erik laughed.

"How can you even ask that?"

"Because I don't know."

His shoulders hunched, then he straightened, turned, eyes blazing . "Yes. I want you. But I'm not going to do this, not going to take advantage of you. You've had a glass or two of wine, you're not thinking clearly."

"Don't tell me what I want!" she snapped.

"How can you want _this_?" he roared, and she crossed the room, catching his hand and lacing their fingers together, folding it between them.

The black eyes glared down into hers, angry and challenging, and Christine rose on her toes, brushing her lips against his. Erik could have been stone, his thin lips tight and compressed, unyielding against hers. She pulled back slightly then kissed him again, releasing his hand and winding hers around his back for balance, feeling the anger in the rigidity of his spine. Christine turned her head, avoiding the prosthetics's edges, slanting her lips against his and trailing downwards.

"You stupid, stubborn man," she whispered against his jaw, "kiss me back."

His arms came around her tightly, crushing her body against the hard planes of his chest as Erik's lips came down on hers with bruising force.

When the punishing pressure of his mouth ceased and became more tentative, gentle, something more like hunger she couldn't say, only felt the arms around her turn from iron into flesh, the brush of tongue and breath warm and searching, opening to him gladly. He was so tall the embrace could not have been more awkward until Erik turned sideways, an arm rising and cradling her hand in his spread fingers, bending, the sweep of lips and tongue exhilarating.

She felt no fear.

And just as abruptly he released her, firmly separating them, and forehead leaning against hers, eyes shut, he held her, breathing ragged. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have..."

"I wanted to. I still do," she said softly. "I'm not afraid."

"Christine," he said slowly, "are you sure?" He paused, unwilling to proceed further, the delicacy of the topic rendering him hesitant. "What Khan told me...I'm sorry. I..."

She laid a finger on his lips. "Hush. I don't want to talk about it right now. But yes...I am sure. It just...caught me off guard last time." She looked up at him with a wry sadness. "I'm sorry I'm such a mess. I didn't tell anyone until just recently."

Erik held open his arms and she stepped into them with a sigh, leaning against his shoulder. He held her closely, his bony chin resting on her head. "I understand," he said quietly. "There is a lot I've never told anyone."

Against him she nodded and gave him a watery smile. "I guess neither of us is...we both have a lot of baggage."

He laughed softly, a rumble deep in his chest. "That's one way to put it."

* * *

The chessboard lay between them on a red hassock, a tray of nuts, olives, cheese, crackers, and dates alongside. Erik sat studying the board, a cup of coffee in one hand.

"Bring the lady over for dinner." Khan slid his bishop two spaces and was rewarded with Erik's frown. "I will make for her my olive chicken."

"I don't think so." He moved his own queen backwards into a more protected area.

Khan leaned forward, jumping a knight. "Your mind is not on the game, Erik. You are making this too easy for me."

"I don't suppose you have a Motorola charger."

Khan blinked and reached into the bowl of sticky dates. "No. Why should I have such a thing?" He gestured around the apartment, near-Spartan in its contents.

Erik took a sip. "This is sludge."

"And yet you drink it." He smiled, white teeth in a tanned face, but the jade eyes were not amused. "Come Erik, what is on your mind?"

"I was mailed a box of Carla's belongings," he said abruptly. "Some things were hers, others not. There was a phone, a mobile phone, an old one, in the box. Too old to be useful, yet someone kept it, had hidden it in with her things. The theater had thought it might have been from a petty thief they'd had, back then." He rose, pacing. "Buquet broke into my house, Khan. He was after something. Why else would he show up all these years later? It has to be that box, those items. The phone's the only thing that makes sense."

Nadir Khan poured himself another cup of coffee from his parents' antique pot, setting it carefully back onto the polished brass tray. "It could be a coincidence, a petty thief, as you say."

"I don't think so."

"Then turn it over to the police. I am sure they will have ways to find what's on it."

Erik shook his head stubbornly. "I want to know what's on that phone, whose it is."

"It is best sometimes to let the sleeping dogs lie, Erik." Khan slid his queen across the board.

"Check."

* * *

.

The next chapter is already at 2800 words, so hopefully we'll have another update in a week or so. :) Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think!  
~R


	30. Chapter 30 Painful Memories

A/N—Thanks for your reviews from the last update! Things are beginning to veer into the M rated zone here, and there is a non-detailed description of sexual assault, so please be warned. Thanks go to friends on Tumblr for listening to me grumble about this chapter!

* * *

The Measure of a Man

Chp 30 Painful Memories

2019

.

"These?" Christine held up a pair of lacy black...somethings...and waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Meg giggled. "No way. What even are those?"

"I'm not sure," Christine admitted. "Nor do I know how you could wear them. They look itchy."

Meg grinned and began flicking through the next rack. "God these are awful," she said with distaste. "This stuff so isn't me."

"Yeah."

Meg dropped a pair of neon green items back on the shelf. "Look, I'm just not feeling this. Do you mind...can we go somewhere else?"

"I'm good." They left the shop and continued down the mall concourse, pausing at the juice bar. "Smoothie?"

"Yeah."

"You grab us a table and I'll buy."

"That works. Caribbean Cooler, small." Meg made a beeline for an available table, perching on a high stool and Christine joined a few minutes later, poking a straw through the lid of her drink.

"I'm sorry the shopping trip is turning out to be a bummer."

Meg shook her head. "It's ok. I'm sure I'll get all sorts of wild stuff at the shower." She stirred her frozen drink. "I know everyone thinks I'm this wild party girl, but Chris...I'm not, not really. I just want Brian and to be happy," she said softly. "Those things...they aren't me. I'd be perfectly happy with an old-fashioned white nightgown." Her smile was shaky and Christine squeezed her hand. "The thing is...Brian doesn't need that stuff either. He's like...he sees me, you know? Not the dancer on stage, not the girl from the wealthy family, just me."

Christine gave her friend a hug. "I think it's sweet. You're a lucky woman, Meg."

"I know I am," she said soberly. "I can't wait for all of this to be over." She took a sip. "Would you be okay if we left and maybe went to Rothschild's? They've got a lingerie department too. Maybe I can find something I like there."

Being a dancer, Meg looked good in everything, Christine thought later, firmly squashing the imps of envy at her friend's long legs and graceful form, but even so, she'd bought only one item, a simple nightgown in a delicate shade of shell pink that made her skin glow. She had also insisted that Christine purchase something for herself and the two had spent the last half hour hunting for just the right item. A long silky blue nightdress had caught her eye, and Meg had insisted she try it on, then had put her foot down.

"I want you to get something for yourself. That gown makes you look like a 1940s movie star. Get it, Chris. If you don't I'll buy it and gift it to you myself. Please."

With the hope that some retail therapy might help lift the winter blahs, she'd bought it, and Meg had bought her the matching robe as a bridesmaid gift. Christine had no idea when or where she'd ever wear them, but sometimes it did a girl good just to know that she owned one piece of truly gorgeous lingerie.

* * *

Erik sagged against the shower wall, his gasps of relief turning to self-loathing as the hot water rinsed all evidence away.

The dreams were incessant and erotic, awakening in his body a cavernous hunger that he'd not felt in years, not even in the first heady liaisons with Carla. Long buried under layers of illness and anger, they'd been easy to ignore but now rose to the surface, simmering in his mind, winding about his music, and tormenting his flesh.

He dragged a hand down his ruined face. _She won't want you when she comes to her senses. You know what happened last time._

 _Yes, but that was different. We didn't know. We can take it slowly. Be in the light. Standing up. Anything different._

 _You're a fool._

Soapsuds swirled down the drain.

He turned off the water.

* * *

The room was warm today, the sun streaming through the glass windows, muted somewhat by the wall of plants. Christine grabbed a water bottle from the credenza and left her backpack, choosing the chair that faced the room this time.

"Have you given thought as to what type of relationship you wish to pursue with this man?" The therapist's voice was neutral as she sat across from Christine. "There are many components of a healthy sexual relationship, if that is what you want. The physical acts themselves, consent, desire, security and comfort, reciprocity. You said you'd nearly been intimate with him before, but that it had not worked out."

That was certainly one way to put it. Although they had discussed that evening several times, Christine sat silently, turning over her thoughts.

"How did you feel about that?" the therapist asked after a few minutes.

"Scared," she said softly, "at the time. And then guilty. And then awful, afterwards, because he was so upset and angry. And I felt like I'd let him down."

"This is about you. How did you feel about yourself?"

"I wanted it," she said slowly. "I wanted to be with him that night. My body certainly did, and then my mind...just kind of...freaked out...because what if...what if I'd wanted it, you know, back then? Did I lead him on?"

"Consent, Christine," she said firmly. "Did you consent? No? Then it doesn't matter what you said or did back then. What he did was assault. If you were drunk or drugged or unconscious, you didn't give consent." She waited a minute for Christine to internalize her words. "Have you talked with Erik yet?"

"No. I just...kind of left it hanging. But he knows."

The therapist raised her eyebrows inquisitively, and Christine continued. "A mutual friend total him...not the details, he doesn't know those, but just a little. I don't think he was being...I think he was trying to help."

"Do you like this man, enough to try for a relationship with him?"

"Yes, I do," she said quietly.

"Then Christine, you need to have an honest, open conversation with him about this. And sooner, rather than later."

* * *

 _If you're out and about with an hour or so free, let me know?_

The art center was one of the crown jewels of the recent construction on the south end of the campus, with galleries and an auditorium on the ground floor and well-lit classrooms above. It was also unfailingly warm, the sun streaming through the glass windows of the atrium, and usually empty this time of day. Christine passed the kinesthetic sculptures, half-buried in snow, and entered the building. She'd been meaning to come view this month's traveling exhibit—Western Landscapes of the Early Twentieth Century—anyway.

"I am not fond of Modernist Art."

That voice, pitched just low enough for her ears only, sent a frisson up her spine. "But van Gogh, Erik. And Cézanne."

He gave the painting a narrow look from beside her, the black coat folded neatly over one arm. "They are infinitely better than this."

She grinned at the canvas. The garish splotches of colors were jarring. "I'm not crazy about this one myself, but I do like the Willard Nash pieces, Santa Fe and Taos, that northern New Mexico region. Those are pretty." She gestured at the landscapes on the opposite wall.

"Mmmphf." Tilting his head, Erik surveyed the painting in question. "It is somewhat better, yes. At least you know what you're seeing."

"You are such a purist."

"Yes," he agreed. "I received your text." He glanced at her questioningly.

"Let's sit. There's something I need to tell you." Benches lined the wall opposite the gallery and he followed. "I hope you didn't make a special trip?"

"No, I was meeting with Reyer." He leaned against the warm glass and waited apprehensively.

Christine placed her coat over her lap, focusing on the blue gloves. _How to even begin?_ "When I was in high school, the summer after we graduated, I had...I was assaulted," she said abruptly. Beside her Erik stiffened, and she took a shaky breath, clenching the gloves tightly. "He was a boy I knew—the high school was small, we all knew everybody—but we weren't dating or anything. I didn't know he knew I even existed. But his parents had money, a big house, a pool, and he was always throwing parties. Meg went out there all the time. A lot of people did. And then he started inviting me."

"Christine...you don't need to tell me any of this. If it brings up bad memories, don't...you don't need to." He didn't dare touch her.

"But I do need to," she said quietly. "You need to know this about me, why I...why I didn't handle things well that night we were together. And I'm sorry for that, I should have told you before, but… I hadn't told anyone before, at all. And now it's just a mess."

"Khan told me you'd been hurt," he said gently. "You needn't say anything else. I'm sorry I was angry that night."

She shook her head, ploughing on. "I think he must have slipped something in my drink. I mean...I'd heard about that sort of thing, but it didn't happen in my world, you know? That was something to worry about in bars, or at college parties or something. Not with people you knew? Had known since you were a kid? I don't really remember what happened, to be honest. I was in the kitchen, with him…he was showing me where things were, we were drinking cokes. I'd had one wine cooler and then...I felt dizzy….I came to in the bathroom, and...and I knew what had happened."

Erik was still as stone beside her, trying not to breathe. Christine twisted the gloves, his gloves, in her hands, her knuckles white. "You didn't tell anyone?"

She shook her head and swiped angrily at the trickle down her cheek. Erik quietly passed her his handkerchief and she smiled shakily. "You always have one of these."

"For damsels in distress," he said lightly.

She blew her nose. "No, I didn't tell anyone, not even Meg or my parents. Especially not my parents." The anger was beginning to bleed through. "They would have been devastated. They were so proud of me, and then… And my mom was sick, going through chemo, and my dad was always working late…his company was letting so many people go and we had to have the insurance. Like I was gong to make it worse on them? No." She sucked in a shuddering breath. "But I had the sense to lie to my parents, told them I was going shopping. Went to the clinic and got myself tested a couple days later. Because… But it was good. Everything came back negative. I was lucky."

"There was nothing lucky about it," Erik said harshly. He squeezed her hand and she clung to it.

"I was coming here anyway in a month's time. I just wanted to put it all behind me. And I thought I had but..." She swiped savagely at her face.

"Christine...I don't know what to say."

"There's nothing you can say. Or do. It's my problem. But I wanted you to know and...it was just me, all me that night, not you, not anything you said or did, and I'm sorry I'm such a mess and…."

He pulled her into his arms as she began crying, tucking her head against his shoulder and stroking her hair as she wept. He had no idea what to do.

Khan's revelation had been surprising, and then not surprising once he forced himself to look beyond the anger that anyone would have harmed Christine. Her reactions in hindsight made sense. But now…

She leaned against him, exhausted and shivering. Erik reached over and pulled her coat around her shoulders, offering her a modicum of privacy as she dabbed at her reddened eyes. The gallery was deserted, long shadows slanting across the floor.

"Let me take you to dinner," he said softly. "I worked through lunch, and they say college students are always starving. What do you say? My car's across the street."

"That's fine." She sat up and pushed her hair over her shoulders. "I must look like hell."

Erik lifted her chin gently in his long fingers. "You are beautiful."

She was quiet on the ride over, unwilling to meet his eyes, ashamed, perhaps, or embarrassed, probably uncertain how he might react. Bile simmered in the back of his throat, rage that anyone would have hurt her so, and an overwhelming urge to keep her safe and protected. And he could not, dare not, say anything.

The Mercedes glided to a stop. "I forgot to ask you if Italian would be ok," Erik said, chagrined. "I seem to remember you liking this place last time, though. Is it fine, or shall we go elsewhere? It's early enough that seating will be no problem."

"Italian's fine. I haven't been here since we were here last."

Erik shot her a sharp look as they climbed the steps. Christine hunched into her coat, eyes tired. "Table for two, somewhere quiet, please."

They were seated in a far corner, near the outside wall. The server deftly lit the low candle as Erik placed their coats on a chair. Christine was quiet, fiddling with her water glass, rolling the edges of her napkin and staring out the windows, anything but looking at him. His heart twisted.

"Did I tell you I'd sent off the songs to the producers and director for the film?"

"No."

Erik kept his voice soothing, telling her of the processes involved in setting musical scores for movies, relieved to see her slowly begin to relax. Salads and drinks arrived and they busied themselves with napkins and cutlery.

"So where do we go from here?" Christine said in a small voice.

Erik reached for her hand, holding it gently. Her fingers were cold. "If you're asking if I am still interested in you, if I still want you around, the answer is emphatically yes."

Startled, her eyes leapt up to meet his, and he held them. "But..."

"Christine." His thumb stroked the back of her hand gently. "What happened to you...it was awful, and I'm not going to dismiss that, but it doesn't make any difference in how I see you. I don't know what you feel for me, if anything, but...I want you in my life." He took a deep breath. "You're the best thing that's happened in a very long time."

She blinked back tears. "I like you too, and...I want to be around, but...I can't make any promises, any long-term promises right now. I'm in grad school...I have a job waiting for me back home. And as for...more than that..."

He squeezed her fingers. "Then we'll take it slowly. You set the pace. Whatever you need, I'm here."

* * *

He'd avoided the theater in the years since Carla's death, too ill for a time to attend any events for months and unwilling to subject himself to the stares and whispers afterwards. Even the thought of his private box, from which he'd watched innumerable performances and offered a modicum of privacy, did not appeal. Erik relinquished the season tickets and eventually moved away from the city altogether.

Moved away without closure, without a concrete ending, it seemed. Carla's ghost was still restless and he was unable to move on. There were memories to put behind him now, opportunities appearing, a woman who occupied his thoughts and dreams. The upcoming weekend was a quarterly meeting of the Opera Society, and though it would be easier to simply mail the box, Erik was fighting a growing sense of urgency to return the items himself, to lay those ghosts to rest.

As predicted, the weather cleared, the skies the pale blue of winter as the Mercedes hummed along I-90 headed south. His suitcase and winter survival gear were in the backseat, but the roads were clear and heavily trafficked, a good weekend for a road trip.

It hadn't seemed so long a drive last time, coming down for the early autumn meeting, but then, he'd not been alone. Christine had accompanied him, Christine, with her sweet voice singing with the radio and her easy companionship.

They had gone back to his house after dinner the other night. Christine had been quiet. He'd played Chopin for her, Mendelssohn and Debussy, the fire burning and conversation low key. He had driven her home afterwards and she'd kissed him at the door, a lingering kiss of ineffable sweetness.

Perhaps he should offer to take her to Yellowstone, as she'd mentioned. Or Calgary, or Portland...anywhere together. Did she have a passport? Spring Break was coming up very soon, in March. His thoughts meandered down a variety of pleasant daydreams as the miles rolled past beneath the wheels.

* * *

Denver had been home for many years but now parts of the city were unrecognizable, the sheer amount of new construction astounding. It was not his city any longer. The high-rise tower where they'd lived was unchanged as was the surrounding area, crowded with trendy shopping, upscale markets, and condos, but the margins of the city had been pushed out, a solid urban landscape blurring into Fort Collins, Boulder, Aurora, and no doubt even Colorado Springs.

Not his city, and time to say goodbye.

Erik had departed the Hotel St. Julien immediately after breakfast. There would be a quick meeting with the lawyer and his agent to formally sign the new contracts, expressions of mutual appreciation and avarice on both sides, then some hours to kill before the Opera Society dinner. Sunday would find him driving northward home, out of this concrete and steel, back to quiet and Christine.

After a quick meeting with the theater management to return the box, of course.

Firman had responded to his rather terse call, putting off a meeting Saturday to Sunday morning, post performance. _A closing night_ , he'd said, with a busy afternoon prior. Doing what, he'd not elaborated, but Erik had agreed. Two hours' later start home would make little difference in the end, and the fewer people he encountered the better.

Two turns and five lights later he was staring up at a multi-level garage, cold and impersonal. He'd never known precisely where she'd been found. Pointless to speculate, to search, to remain.

At least the Highlander was as good as he remembered, though Erik chose to eat in the car, heater running and carefully avoiding drips and crumbs. Carla had claimed to loathe the place, the noise, the orange walls clashing with her hair, but would saunter in, tight jeans and slow drawl, smirking at servers and customers alike as they tried to puzzle out where they might have seen her. Erik, the dark shadow at her side, rarely noticed.

He scattered the remaining crumbs and locked the door, a solitary figure in black, stark against the snow-covered lawn and grey memorials. Shoulders hunched against the wind and gloved hands in pockets, he risked fine shoe leather on a final farewell.

Carla's headstone was larger than the surrounding markers, smooth red granite the color of her hair. _Gone but not forgotten_ , not by someone who had left flowers in the past week, roses frozen and withered. He added his own.

Damaged flesh began to ache, the cold biting into exposed skin.

But like the parking garage, there was no sense of her here. No lingering grief or anger, only the sense of a life wasted. He turned to go.

* * *

Saturday night's meeting of the Opera Society was held in the upper private dining area of the Rancher's Club. Carla had adored these events, a chance to mingle and show off her latest jewelry, laughing up at various sponsors and sipping champagne before the dinners. The locations always varied but the crowd rarely did.

"Erik! Glad to see you among us again!" He gritted his teeth as the heavy hand came down upon his shoulder. "Where's that pretty thing you had on your arm last time?"

His cold stare had frozen the man on the spot. "My friend could not attend this time, Victor. But I will tell her of your inquiry." He'd been the specter at the table for the remainder of the night, all awkward conversations and uncomfortable silences, people smiling uncertainly and fading small talk. Erik had sipped the wine and enjoyed the excellent prime rib with no intention of being with these people again.

He had been glad to take his leave.

The night was clear and bitterly cold, the Mercedes grudgingly providing a trickle of heat to he floor, and Erik willed the seat warmer to heat a little faster.

Denver bustled even at this hour and temperature, the downtown vibrant with lights and people. Couples walked arm in arm, pressed together in the cold, and friends called to one another or waved as he passed clubs, cinemas, and restaurants.

They'd been part of this nightlife once, the noise, the people. Or rather Carla had, the center of gaiety and crowds, moving through admirers and detractors alike, charming and witty, flashing that million watt smile, creamy flesh on display. He'd not realized how much he'd barely tolerated those evenings until afterwards. A recluse, they'd called him, after the accident, buried in his injuries and memories, pitying him.

Yet no one save Khan had reached out through the layers of self-imposed isolation and bitterness, and later Reyer, with his rough friendship and job offers. No one until Christine, who'd known nothing of his past, had taken him as he was.

Despite how he was.

The elevator rolled smoothly to the top floor, depositing him in the opulent landing. Erik pulled open the curtains in his room, letting the pale moonlight wash the room in shades of shadowed grey. He pulled off his tie, dropping it on the sofa as he passed, and unbuttoned the top button of his white shirt. The small refrigerator yielded a variety of offerings; he poured a finger of scotch into a glass and sat swirling it, brooding into the starry sky.

* * *

Sunday morning arrived heavy and cold. It had not been a peaceful night, beset by dreams, and Erik quickly gathered his few possessions into the overnight bag, suddenly very tired of the whole trip. He would eat breakfast, visit the theater, and return home, leaving the past behind, ready for a new beginning.

The building was not far, the front a glass and steel edifice with long shallow stairs and corner fountains fronting a high rectangle. He parked at the back where enormous doors flanked loading docks and ramps, the back entrance used by crews and cast alike.

Erik grimly pulled the hat low across his forehead, covering the hairpiece from the wind and hiding the edge of the prosthetic mask. The parking lot was treacherous with ice where the shade fell across the badly-drained asphalt and he removed the cane from the back seat, thankful to have remembered it. The last thing he wanted was to fall. Box tucked under one arm, he entered the building.

The theater had not changed, the sight and sounds piercing and scents harsh in his lungs. Erik walked rapidly past the rear foyer and toward the offices, grateful for familiarity and an appointment that kept him from having to speak with anyone. Still, the men started when he stepped into the office, unsurprising given their previous parting. He'd been consumed with guilt and anger, threatening legal action and accusing them of not preventing his clearly incapacitated wife from leaving.

"Why so silent, gentlemen?" he said mockingly and felt a trickle of savage enjoyment as the men hastily offered a seat. The phone, pulled at the last minute from the box, weighed in his pocket.

"Welcome, Dr. Martin." Firman at least was making an effort to be genial. The man had aged fairly well, his paunch a little more pronounced, broken capillaries around the nose. Andre, eyes bulging, stammered an insincere greeting. He'd been a young man the last time and now looked much older, hair thinning, the garish tie and owl-like glasses doing nothing for his appearance. Perhaps they were meant to be arty.

"What can we do for you today?"

Erik lowered the box to the desk. "As I said in my previous message, I appreciate your returning these items, but I am afraid it was of little point. The wallet was my late wife's but the rest...you might want to make more of an effort to find the rightful owners." He indicated the box and Andre reluctantly rose, taking the cardboard square as if it contained a live rattlesnake and carrying it to the back room.

* * *

 _It could not possibly be, and yet it was. The arrogant walk, the hat tipped just so—who the hell wore a fedora these days?-the long coat and a walking stick, for god's sake, strutting into the theater and bypassing the front desk as though he owned the place, the bastard._

* * *

Leaving the purse and its content behind had been freeing and Erik left the office with a lighter step. A door had shut and another one opened, light and music behind it, the chance of a new beginning. But first, there was one final ghost to bid adieu.

Down the long hall and beyond the practice rooms, around the corner and past the emergency exits, and there is was, the unmarked stage door. Unlocked, for fire safety. He mounted the steps and stood in the wings of that vast silent stage, the seats in shadows, only the ghost light giving a little illumination to the black floor and endless shadows above. It was here he'd once stood, awkward and hands damp with anticipation, enthralled as the voluptuous redhead made her final bows. He'd stammered his admiration and she had laughed. He had taken her to dinner and she had taken him to bed.

They'd married after two tempestuous years of courtship, followed by six years of hell. Erik craned his head back, staring up into the stygian darkness of the flies. Absurd, now, to think he'd once hidden up there amongst the catwalks to be nearer to her, had actually thought of showering Carla with rose petals from above.

It was here she had been more alive than anywhere else, he realized. Not with him, nor anyone.

Erik pulled the phone from his pocket, lifting it thoughtfully. He didn't need to know what was on it; it belonged to the past. He could go back to the offices, return the phone, say that it had fallen out of the package in the car, and be free.

Across the stage, a cowled figure slipped behind the back curtain and moved quietly across the stage.

The blow came out of nowhere, a sudden hard thrust between his shoulder blades and Erik staggered forward, the bad knee buckling, nearly sending him sprawling. Heavy hands dragged at his coat, clawing at the pocket. He swung the cane upwards, connecting with flesh, and staggered to his feet.

"Oh, what the bloody hell?" The stage manager said exasperated and beside him, Firman turned.

"Good lord, now what?" He leaned over and snapped the switch. "You there, what are you doing on the stage?"

"Speakers aren't working," Reese reminded him. "They can't hear you."

"Goddammit, if it's not one bloody thing it's another. Keep an eye on them. I'll get the guard." Firman turned and stormed out of the booth, the lighting revamp forgotten.

After a moment, Reese flipped the power switch for the recording devices.

"Give me the phone."

"I don't have it."

"You are a lying sack of shit. I saw you with it just now. Give it to me."

"Or you'll what?" Erik stepped backward, testing his bad leg. There was no way he could run, could jump from the stage to the floor, and this section of the building was surely empty at this hour. He leaned heavily on the stick and the man laughed.

"You're pathetic. She said you were. Useless, she called you." He took a step forward, menacingly. "I could break you."

The voice, pieces whirling into place...but what was so important about the phone? Erik took another step. "Don Juan should lose some weight," he said mockingly. "I remember you now."

Piangi laughed. "I'm through here. Last night was the final performance. I need the phone and I'm on my way, anywhere south. Don't make me take it."

"You can try." In the stage manager's alcove, a green LED began to blink than stayed steady. The performance recording light. Someone was here, watching. "She would never have left with you." He stepped sideways and back again.

"She would." The voice was contemptuous. "Carla was everything to me. We had plans. Then you wouldn't give her a divorce."

The non sequitur made no sense. He stepped sideways again, leaning on the cane, toward the wings. _Keep stalling, keep him talking_. "What are you talking about? Why is the phone so important?"

"We needed money and you wouldn't give it to her. Wouldn't let her be free." He lunged forward and Erik spun, throwing the small silver object to center stage, knee arcing in pain. Piangi lurched toward it, feet tangling in the heavy robes, as Erik caught the lever and pulled. Released from the brakes, the heavy backdrop fell from the rafters, the piping catching the hooded figure across the shoulders as he stumbled, knocking him to the floor.

* * *

.

* * *

Erik hobbled into the living room and eased himself down on the sofa, pulling the ottoman near and elevating his leg. It was good to be back, the clean lines and neutral colors soothing. Behind him Christine paused in the kitchen. Starting water for tea, he surmised, and probably something else, from the sounds of cabinets.

She entered the room a minute later, leaving a bowl on the end table and kneeling to put a match to his carefully-arranged fire preparations, then rose on tiptoes, lighting the candles on the mantle, giving the room a welcoming soft glow. The wool tweed trousers fit her form perfectly, the coral sweater as well, and he felt the familiar tightness in his chest.

"I love this room," Christine admitted, sinking onto the leather sofa and leaning her head back. Firelight flickered across the ceiling and along the bookshelves. "It feels so warm and safe." She glanced at him. "How is the knee?"

"Happier to be home."

"I'll bet." She gave him a smile. "Tea's steeping; I'll bring us some here in a minute, and some more substantial snacks. Don't know about you but I'm a little chilled."

He nodded. "Thank you, again, for coming over."

"Of course." Christine pushed the bowl closer and settled back. "So it was this other actor all along? But what about the break-in?"

"He'd apparently hired Buquet to get the phone, but the man didn't follow the plans."

She nodded, frowning. "But what was on the phone?"

Erik lifted a handful of salty cheese squares and pretzels, crunching them slowly. "Photos, and a few videos, all of underage girls, and even a few boys, all engaged in sex acts. With him, Piangi. His voice is on the phone as well. He was using them and promising them jobs and recommendations, a foot in the door. That sort of thing. And in a few cases, as blackmail. Old tricks."

"That's horrible." Her eyes were sad. "Those poor kids."

"He's confessed to it all, trying for a plea deal. Apparently Carla found out about it. She was furious. Took the phone and hid it. Probably took the other things as well to make it look like a petty thief."

"But what happened, I mean," she hesitated, "when she died?"

"The sedatives were his too, and most of hers. He claims he thought she'd fall asleep in her dressing room, so he could search it. Claims he didn't know she'd try to drive, then pull over in that garage. She'd tried to call me—my number was the last one on her real phone—but the drugs must have been too much at that point and she passed out. It was freezing, and she choked, and...you know the rest."

"Yes." Her eyes were sad. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. It was the dramatic ending she would have liked...and...at least we know now. There will probably be another trial and I may have to give evidence."

"I'll go with you, if you want."

"You would do that?"

"Of course." Silence fell in the room, punctuated by cracking and the occasional hiss from the damp wood. "Erik," she said quietly, "why didn't you call me to come down to Denver?"

He shrugged and took another cracker. "I thought about getting someone to drive me back. Can't have Khan fussing that I'd messed up the knee again. But...you had classes, and I've taken up so much of your time already." He glanced at her. "No. The truth is, I wanted you there with me. I needed someone I could trust. But I didn't want to drag you into any more of my mistakes."

She reached over and took his hand, her fingers warm on his cold skin. Erik shut his eyes, savoring the feel of her fingertips tracing patterns on the back of his hand.

"You scared me with that phone call, you know." She cradled his hand and pulled it against her cheek.

"I'm sorry. That wasn't my intention."

"I'm tired of you getting hurt." She scrubbed at the tears angrily, and Erik pulled her into his arms.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart."

She grabbed his shirt and leaned forward, but Erik met her more than halfway, arms tightening as their lips met. Salt and sweetness mingled, tenderness underlaid with something more, then Erik was pulling back, his breathing ragged.

"Christine, don't...I can't...this is hard for me, too."

"But I want to," she said softly. His dark eyes focused on her, hope and desperation surging.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to touch me."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes," she breathed, as his hand ghosted down her spine, sending tingles after his touch.

"Any time you want me to stop, you need only say," he murmured against her her hair, then pulled back to look deeply into her eyes. "I will not be upset or angry. I promise. Do you trust me?"

"Completely," she whispered, and shut her eyes.

His lips brushed her skin, his cool touch sweeping aside the loose curls. One hand dropped to her hip, the other crept around her neck, cradling her head as his thin lips swept along her jaw and to her temple. For several long minutes the soft hiss and pop of the fire accompanied the slow slide and sweep of lips, teeth, and tongue.

Christine curled against him, her head on his chest, listening to the pounding of his heart, one hand tracing patterns on his sweater, and Erik leaned his good cheek against her head.

"Christine, I've been thinking," he said slowly. "The semester ends the second week of May, yes?" She nodded. "I will need to meet in person with the director and screen writer for the film. In Paris. You said you'd need to make a trip to France at some point."

Her eyes did not leave his face. "Yes."

Erik swallowed hard. "Would you like to accompany me?"

"As your…."

"My friend...and more, if you want."

"I want."

"One room or two?"

"One."

* * *

Did anyone note the nods to the musical in this and in the last chapter, or the nod to Leroux in this one? There's also a Sarah Brightman song title hidden in this chapter. :D  
My apologies for the three week delay, but I hope the chapter was worth the wait. Please let me know what you think.

As always, thanks for reading, and please review!

~R


	31. Chapter 31 To Take A Chance

**A/N** —I know I keep saying "just one more chapter to go" but these two keep telling me things.

The Measure of a Man

Chp 31 To Take A Chance

2019

.

 _Off to Paris!_

The metallic rose-gold bullet journal lay open before her, a gift from Meg, along with archival ink gel pens and an assortment of France-themed and travel stickers. She must have spent a fortune at the crafts store. Christine would far rather have just made a list on her laptop, but she wouldn't have hurt her friend's feelings for the world.

The Girys had been over-the-moon excited at her trip.

For as long as she could remember, Meg's family had made a pilgrimage of sorts back to "the home country" to visit friends and for Meg to practice her French and to "acquire polish" as her friend had said, rolling her eyes. Christine had wanted desperately to go but international travel had been out of the question. Still, Meg had never failed to bring back a small gift each time—souvenirs, exotic candy or cookies, _confitures_ , a stuffed animal, a jingling silver charm for her bracelet. She'd had posters on her wall as a teen, _Le Chat Noir_ and the Eiffel Tower, and now was finally going herself.

She turned a page and began to make lists.

 _What to Take?_

Adele Giry dispensed advice and admonitions in equal measures. "You must take a jacket, for Paris can be chilly still that time of year. And not the tennis shoes! Those are for tourists! Dark flats for walking."

"But I will be a tourist!" Christine had pointed out with a smile.

"You need not look like one," the lady replied with a sniff.

She still needed to go shopping. There was the small issue of an appropriate suitcase as well, something nondescript yet sturdy.

 _Passport!_

It was inbound already. The day after Erik had so hesitantly invited her, Christine had ordered another copy of her birth certificate and printed the passport application forms. Two days later they met at the government office, took an official photo, and submitted the paperwork. Erik had insisted on paying for the expedited processing to be sure her passport would arrive in time. There was also some new EU visa form they'd had to send in.

 _Tickets?_

They were flying business class. As comfortable as First, plenty of room, and the center of the plane gets there as fast as the nose, he'd said. The tickets were his gift. They'd try to sleep on the way over and arrive early morning.

 _To Research_

Her advisor had huffed but they'd buckled down and selected a rough area for her thesis, centering around music in French history. Perhaps the influence of the Opera on Society? Or the increasing availability of dance, theater, and music for the masses? She would need to select a final topic soon and make a list of libraries in which to do research while Erik was busy. She'd already downloaded and was studying a map of the Paris Metro.

 _What to See?_

Oh, everything, absolutely everything. All of the touristy sites and the history she'd taught. Art museums and galleries, _An American in Paris_ and _Gigi_ and _Amelie, The Little Prince_ and Hugo and Dumas and Leroux, the Eiffel tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the Champs-Élysées, the Louvre, the Versailles Palace, the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris and the Sacré-Cœur, Monmarte, and all of the gardens, the catacombs, Moulin Rouge, the Place de la Concorde, the Latin Quarter, that huge Père Lachaise Cemetery, the Palais Garnier, those famous bridges, Napoleon and the Sun King, and if there was time, Normandy and Mont St. Michel, a Seine River cruise….

Erik would be exhausted and so would she, but then, when would she ever be able to return?

* * *

From down the hallway blended voices echoed in muffled bursts through the wood of practice room doors and an oboe hooted mournfully. He sped past, feet unconsciously following the pattern of years past, and stopped at a door, frowning.

"Come in, Erik." Reyer glanced up from the desk, piled haphazardly with towers of folders threatening to landslide.

Erik tapped the nameplate on the wall with a long finger. "What is this?"

The grey-haired man sighed. "What does it look like?"

"Like you got roped into being department head." He pulled a chair carefully aside and eyed the seat.

"Well, Sue retired at the break and Van Eaton is sick and Hoffman is an ass, so that left me."

"Sue retired? I thought she was fossilized here."

"Don't be crass, Erik." Reyer snorted and shoved a stack to the side. "Sit. This is a godawful mess. I should have stayed in my hole." He shook his head. "Sue is going on emeritus status and will be here as needed. You know she can't just let go. This office, though...damn, the woman didn't believe in the digital age. I swear there are copies of things back to WWI here." Irritably he leaned back. "But that's not why you're here."

"Why am I here, Reyer?" Erik folded himself into the stained and dusty chair with a wince.

"I want you back on staff."

The good side of his face twitched into a half-smile. "That's the thing I like about you, Jules, you're as subtle as a brick."

"If you want a lead on, go find a bar."

Erik crossed one leg over the bad knee, tapping his long fingers impatiently against his thigh. "Talk to me."

"The department is looking to expand into adding a music industry degree, along with the usual stuff—musical theater, vocal performance, education, history, tech. You know the programs. It's a collaboration, of course, but it's new and I thought of you immediately. Interested?"

"I don't know," he said slowly, his mind darting around the idea. "Give me some details."

"We'll start in the fall but there's time still to add a summer class if you'd want. You'd have the enrollment. If you'd rather start in the fall that's fine too and it would give you more time for the curriculum, and in the meantime Jensen would love to have you speak in the capstone series and I have a handful of kids who'd sell their grandmother to have you for their advisor. That Kevin Spencer kid talked you up and his scholarship was quite the boon for the department. Up to you, though." He took a sip from a mug of coffee and grimaced.

"It's not that I'm not interested." He hesitated. "But there are other considerations."

"Your past? Not an issue. And I know you don't need the money. Erik, you were the best damn theory and composition teacher we ever had. I'm in charge and I want you back. Hoffman's an ass; I don't think he's going to hang around much longer and when he goes, you can step back in if you want it. In the meantime, you've got an opportunity here to get in on the ground floor of a new program, develop the sequence and structure, teach the courses, work with the kids again. You'd be an adjunct at first, paycheck and insurance, the usual. Part time or full time, whatever you want. You'd even have an office."

"In the basement?"

"Where else?"

"How's the coffee?" His mind was racing.

"Sludge."

"Let me think on it."

"I will."

* * *

 _I'm on campus, if you want to meet._

 _Out at 4:00, group project, LPL. Will you still be around?_

 _Yes_

The Louis Philippe Lounge on the second floor of the Student Union was the unacknowledged but zealously guarded territory of graduate students and the occasional professor. The wifi was fast in the warm green and gold room, the carrels and tables relatively unscarred, and best of all, it was quiet.

He nodded an acknowledgement of her quick smile and went to sit by the windows, watching the students passing below. Christine perched on the edge of a wooden chair, punctuating the air with a pencil as she discussed something animatedly with the other others at the table, an older woman and man, and another woman around her age. He was too far to hear the topic, but they ended with a series of chuckles and began gathering belongings into backpacks and bags. As they left he approached.

"You look very professional today," she informed him with a smile. The suit set well on him, his crisp dark hair brushed back from a high forehead.

"In a good way, I hope?" There was the barest flicker of uncertainty in his eyes and Christine leaned up to tug on his tie.

"In a good way. The hot professor all the girls drool over and text each other about." She brushed an imaginary spec from his shoulder, leaving a kiss along the grim set of his lips. "You just need glasses. Black horn rims," she mused.

"My eyesight is perfect," he said, puzzled, and Christine grinned.

"Oh, they weren't for you."

Baffled, he gave her a noncomprehending look and she laughed. "I refuse to explain."

The frown lines deepened and she berated herself for adding to his stress. "How was the meeting?" He lifted her bag to his shoulder and they fell into step.

"Reyer wants me back on staff."

She searched his face. "That's good, right? Are you going to do it?"

He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "I haven't decided. It's a good opportunity, part time teaching position, some supervisory duties. I'd still have time for my own work."

"But?"

He held the door open and they descended the stairs, buttoning coats. "It's back to work."

The air was crisp and cold, shadows beginning to lengthen, and students hurried by on their way to class or returning to the dorms. Erik frowned at the sidewalk, one hand in his pocket, the bad shoulder hunched slightly.

"My car's in the parking garage. Home, or my place?"

"Yours."

Along with the gradual thaw and clearing skies, the spring quarter had ushered in a subtle change in their relationship. Most every dinner was spent together, discussing the planned Paris trip or arguing with the evening news anchors, and evenings as well, playing music and singing, or with Erik working on any instruments needing attention while Christine completed homework and preliminary research.

She interrogated him endlessly on his years in Paris, curious about his past, questions about the city and language, and his experiences.

"But why Paris, Erik?" she'd asked one evening.

He shrugged. "I had the money and no one to spend it on but myself. The architectural firm was merging and the payout was excellent; it seemed a good time for a break. I'd been a foster child, worked through university on my own, so why not? It was time for a treat."

"You were a foster child?" She'd been shocked and haltingly, Erik had told her of his childhood and how he'd met Khan. It had been a sharp reminder of how little they knew of each other. He had dreaded a pitying reaction but Christine, who had known a series of children in the foster care system during her years in the classroom and without parents herself, had understood.

Dinner that night was simple, glazed salmon with potatoes and green beans, then they settled downstairs for the evening. There was a viola with a long deep scratch waiting his attention; a relatively minor repair. Christine set up her laptop a few feet away, spreading books and notebooks, twisting her long curls up with a pencil.

The meeting today was important, another step in the return to normalcy. Reyer had often voiced his support over the years. The offer was intriguing and truth be told, he had enjoyed working with Kevin. To be able to design and influence a new degree program would be a challenge and already thoughts were swirling about. Erik pulled a pen and notepad forward, jotting down ideas.

He glanced sideways, feeling a spreading warmth through his chest as Christine, a pencil bitten between her lips, typed rapidly on an essay, and Erik probed around the edges of this tentative feeling of happiness. The words "we" and "our" began to creep into their vocabulary. It was all very domestic, shopping and cooking together, checking their schedules for the weekends, and Erik gave serious thought to providing her with a house key.

But on one front things had not progressed.

* * *

"He hasn't touched me since, Meg, I mean, not beyond a goodnight kiss or a hand on my waist when we're walking on ice, that kind of thing. Not that he was pushy before, but...you know."

Meg looked thoughtful as she unwrapped a straw. "Well, you did kind of drop a lot on him there, Chris. Maybe the guy is trying to give you some space. You gotta give him some kudos for that."

Christine made a face. "Yes, but..."

"Look, does he know you're interested? Like in doing more than just holding hands? You need to be up front with this, Chris. Most men suck at hints. Show the guy, if you don't want to just say 'bring it on, my man.'"

Christine sputtered with laughter. "True, true."

"Seriously, Chris, he's probably just waiting for you to make the first move." She dropped the menu. "I don't know about you, but I'm just in the mood for appetizers. How about the Sampler?"

Christine glanced at the description—toasted ravioli and marinara, hummus with warm pita bread, artichoke dip, and wings. "That's a lot of calories, ballerina girl."

"You can have most of it," Meg grinned. She turned on a bright smile for the approaching waiter. "The Sampler appetizer, two waters, and two glasses of the house white. I'm paying."

"Wait a minute," Christine protested and Meg shook her head.

"No, seriously, how many more times are we going to do this before I'm officially an old married woman?" she said in tragic tones. "I owe you for last time anyway, so quit arguing with me."

"Fine."

Meg unfolded her napkin. "So, seriously, what's going on between you two? Like, what's the hold up? You've been hanging out with this guy for months. I know you like him."

"That's the problem. Thanks." She took a sip of the water as the waiter retreated. "That's just it, Meg. I do like this guy. A lot," she said softly. "Like, I could really like him, you know? He's so smart, and he has this dry sense of humor, and he likes to travel...he likes to cook and we have the same political leanings, and god, he's so crazy talented. But...the university is wanting to hire him back on. It's a good opportunity for him, and I'm going back home in another year, and I don't want to be just friends-with-benefits, you know? And I don't think he's like that either."

"You could get a place halfway in-between maybe?" Meg swirled her wine, thinking. "Maybe in Big Timber or somewhere?"

"And have both of us on the road in the winter? No way. Besides, it's like three streets wide, you know that."

"Yeah, I was just thinking out loud."

"And besides, we aren't nearly at that stage."

They'd had this conversation during Spring Break, a week in which Erik had gone off to New York for a meeting and she'd buckled down, meeting school friends for dinner and corralling Meg and Brian into an exhausting, blurry day of finally clearing out her parents' storage unit. Much of the furniture had gone to auction, heavy dark pieces from a grandparent that had been deemed "too good" to get rid of though none of them had particularly liked the items. She'd kept a desk that had stood in the entry of their house and two boxes of photographs, papers that might be important—her father had been the type to document everything—and some sentimental items of décor, now stacked in her living room. She'd shed more than a few tears in the process.

Dinner with the team had been slightly disquieting. It was a quarterly ritual, meeting at Brannigan's for dinner, drinks, and gossip before holiday breaks. Christine had been happy to hear about former students and the shenanigans of the current kids, updates of fellow faculty and problems within the department. She talked briefly about her own studies and plans, then asked about the high school.

Ann frowned, swirling a bit of fruit through the last of her molten chocolate sauce. "Something's up with the high school. Something with funding."

Jon nodded, pushing glasses up with the back of his hand. "Not a clue, though, Admin is being tight-lipped about it. We only know it's a funding issue because Jocy let slip. Money's being tightened up for next year, we know. Budget's down. It's a state thing, of course."

Christine frowned. "How's the hiring?"

"No one new so far. No one's leaving either, so..."

Susan shrugged. "It's been a little weird. Hate it when they don't tell us what's going on."

"Same."

Christine chewed a bite thoughtfully. "Wonder if they're still planning on expanding, if I'll have a job?"

"You can always stay with us, girlfriend. _We_ want you back!" Jon grinned.

That had been a week ago. Erik had returned from his trip looking tired but pleased, and presented her with a small wrapped package. She'd unfolded a large silk scarf of watercolor designs in blues and greens and gasped at the label. "For Paris," he'd smiled, and she'd kissed him.

But that was all. Hugs, quick casual kisses, hand clasps. Evenings spent at one house or the other, cooking and eating together, occasionally leaning on shoulders while on the sofa watching television or movies. She wanted more.

Methodology assignment done, she brought up the browser. _Paris climate OR weather May AND June_ and frowned at it. What to pack? To her left, Erik turned a worn instrument in his hands then laid it aside to tighten the bow, drawing it across a nearby block of amber rosin. A sweet sad note lingered.

"Nice."

"A repair?"

He held up the viola in response, a long scratch down the front and she winced. "Ouch."

"From Northfork High School. Someone knocked over a stand and the poor thing took the blow. The young lady was most upset. It's a school instrument but it has a good tone."

"Hard to fix?"

"No." His fingers danced on the neck, drawing the bow across the strings, smiling and eyes shut.

At least what she could see of him. Tonight he wore a black compression mask, the neoprene-looking material covering the right side of his face, neck, and scalp, leaving open areas for hair, eye, ear, and mouth. It looked more comfortable than the white plastic, and he wore it only at home, around her.

At least Erik was comfortable enough for that. From what she could tell, the masks simply never came off. His face must be suffering under there, crying for air and light, tightly covered from the prosthesis or under hard plastic, but he never mentioned it and she'd tried only once, an evening a few nights ago.

"I wish you would take this off sometimes," she said softly, brushing the hard edge of the plastic. 'Your skin has to need to breathe."

They'd been relaxing on her sofa, watching Netflix. Her fingers curled around the back of his neck, tenderly stroking the crisp line of hair, running into the longer, softer strands, Erik relaxing into her touch. "If you were a cat you'd be purring," she said with a smile and he shut his eyes.

"Maybe."

Christine pulled him backwards until Erik leaned against her arm, continuing to idly stroke his hair as they watched. But as her fingers brushed the edges of his temple, along the edge of the hairpiece and mask he tensed, and she moved her fingers away, pretending not to have noticed, only to find him stiffening as she trailed through the area again.

"Does it hurt you?" she said softly, and he froze.

"No."

"Erik..."

"Leave it, Christine." It was then she'd made the mistake of mentioning the mask and he had moved apart, not with anger but firmly, the unspoken message loud and clear.

Though he'd slowly emerged from his self-imposed isolation, the mask remained in place. It was such a personal thing, his vulnerability, and she'd wondered if the day would ever come when Erik might feel comfortable enough around her to go without it.

So far he had not, another barrier that lay before their intimacy.

"We might as well just be friends," she'd groused to Meg, who'd smiled.

"Nothing wrong with that, you know."

"Yes, but…."

"You want more."

Her face flamed. "Yeah, I do. I think...I think I'm ready for it. But I'm not sure he is."

It was inevitable, this pull between them and like the tide rising then receding, she could only hope it did not leave a litter of broken pieces in its wake.

.

She looked up from her list, tapping the pencil against one finger. "Erik."

"Hmm?" He glanced over from the workbench from where he'd been applying a thin layer of some sticky substance to a piece of dark wood. "Yes?"

"Will we need anything fancy for the trip? For a night out, maybe? I'm wondering about packing again."

"Ah." He replaced the brush after one more delicate swipe. "I had not thought that far ahead. What did you have in mind?"

"I'd love a chance to wear that blue dress again, the one from our trip to Denver last August, at that meeting. It's such a pretty dress," she said wistfully, "but I know it's a bit formal."

"Probably more so than what we'll be doing on this trip," he agreed, and watched her face fall. "But perhaps we can find someplace to wear it here, before we go."

"I'd love to go dancing again, like we did at that ball." Christine smiled in remembrance. "We only had the one dance because of your knee."

He wiped his fingers clean on a rag then went to wash at the tiny corner sink, before walking to the other room.

"Christine." His voice carried softly. "Come here. Quietly."

Curious, she rose. Erik was standing in the shadows just beyond the new French doors.

"Look."

Moonlight poured down outside, and in its glow a herd of deer clustered together, their slender hooves poking small holes in the pristine snow. The crust glittered in the pale light, matching the sky.

"Ohhhhh." Christine froze in delight and Erik's arms came up around her. She leaned against him, enjoying the warmth of his body as the deer picked their way slowly across the yard and back into the tree line. "How beautiful."

"Yes." He released her and she mourned the loss as he stepped away to open the sound cabinet. A moment later the velvet voice of Nat King Cole drifted through the speakers and Erik came to stand behind her. "The knee is much improved, and I believe I _had_ promised you another dance."

He hesitated, his expression uncertain. She smiled and held out both hands. "You did."

The area between the low table and the French doors was just large enough to dance, and she toed off her shoes before moving into his arms, stepping closer and twining her fingers gently with his own. Erik wondered if she could hear his heartbeat as he slid an arm about her waist. With a sigh Christine shut her eyes, her hand settling on his shoulder, fingertips moving carefully over the ridged skin below. Pulse suddenly elevated, she allowed herself to be spun in a slow circle, secure in his arms. "You smell good," she murmured and saw the good side of his face quirk upwards.

"Only for you," Erik said, deadpan, and she grinned.

"I should hope so."

The song ended and the next began, their movements slowing to a gentle sway and embrace. "An album?"

"Sirius XM." She felt his cheek against her hair, and then felt him tug the pencil from her hair, curls falling down around her shoulders.

"Mmm, this is nice." Christine snuggled closer and Erik's arms came around her. "We need to do this more often."

He chuckled softly and brushed a kiss against her temple. "As you wish."

Christine smiled at the quote. "Do that again."

"What?" he murmured, his fingers idly tracing slow arcs on her back.

"Kiss me." She raised her face and Erik froze, pulling back slightly and searching her face, before shutting his eyes and leaning his forehead against hers. She met him halfway, a gentle brush of lips, a tingle that became a gentle pressure of arms and bodies, of meeting and parting, the sweep of tongue and an insane urge toward tears. Erik was shaking and so was she, the music forgotten, the spark between them threatening to ignite.

 _Did she want this?_ She did. "Let's go upstairs," she whispered.

"Are you sure? We can," he swallowed and shut his eyes for a moment. "We don't have to."

"I want to. If you..."

"More than you know."

She followed him up the stairs, turning off lights, their fingers never quite parting as if unwilling to break the connection between them. The music continued playing softly, the 1950s mellow ballads a fading background accompaniment to their thoughts. "No light," he said hoarsely as she turned, his room in shadows of browns and greys, moonlight softening the colors.

"If you want," she said, and laughed softly. "This is awkward."

"It is," he smiled faintly. "Best get on with it, then?"

"Yes," she breathed, and he pulled her closer. They stood in each other's arms for a long minute, pressed together, her hand on the curve of his hipbone, the other stroking his chest. Though not as skeletal as he had been so many months ago, Erik was still a lean man, not an ounce of extra flesh on his body. His fingers continued to trace patterns on her back. Music, she realized, against her skin.

His hand moved up, cradling her head, tipping her face up to his, their lips meeting again in a slow dance. Erik's hands moved along her hips and under her, and with a swoop she was lifted to the dresser, their heights more evenly matched. His broad hands inched under her rose-colored sweater and she gasped at the contact with bare skin, his fingers on her back and and thumbs brushing along her ribs. "This needs to come off," he murmured against her neck, lips trailing upwards, his hand sweeping her hair to the side and trailing around the shell of her ear.

"Yes." She caught the hem, pulling the sweater over her head and discarding it on the dresser beside them, and blushed as his smile pulled higher on the left.

"You are so beautiful." She gasped as his hands ghosted over the lacy cups, thumbs, brushing her stiffened peaks. "May I?" His fingers touched the front clasp.

She nodded and raised her chin, leaning back on her hands as he slipped open the clasp, one pink satiny strap falling loosely down her shoulder, and shivered as he stroked the warm curves.

Her lips sought and found the hollow at his throat, and she breathed on his skin. Beneath her hands, Erik was quivering with tension, his hands shaking slightly as she slowly unbuttoned his shirt, but from fear or desire she didn't know. Christine drew her fingertips lightly down his bared flesh to where the dark line of hair began to descend below his navel, feeling his stomach muscles bunch and jump under her touch. She pulled the shirt loose but let it hang.

The man in the photos she'd seen from her internet search many months ago now had been confident and handsome, arrogant even, black hair brushed back from his forehead and gelled into place, eyes hidden behind aviator frames. The man in her arms had quite literally passed through fire, and with a pang Christine remembered their first encounter, how Erik had been heat and passion until she'd touched him. She was not the only one who feared.

His body was as she remembered, lean tight muscle, the left side bearing a few marks of the accident, the right an abrupt patchwork pattern of scars, raised ridges, surgical lines, the slickness of burns and rougher, almost serrated sections. His breathing was erratic and Christine kept her hands gentle, smoothing over the torn and healed flesh, before pressing her lips softly to his seared skin.

He tensed and forced himself to relax as her hands came to rest on his belt, continuing to kiss and caress her as she slid it from the buckle, then paused at the button. "May I?" she whispered and he nodded, tongue and lips nibbling on the curve of her ear and palms warm on her breasts. The soft wool trousers, weighted by the belt, fell to the floor and he kicked them aside.

She'd never seen his legs, never seen the white scars that ran up the calf and thigh, across the surface of the knee, never seen where the burn scars disappeared under the cotton knit boxers, where another part of him strained sideways against the soft fabric. The temptation was too great and Christine slid a palm across the hardened length, as his hips bucked and he gasped, pulling away.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, did I hurt..."

"No," he gasped. It had been years; he'd not been expecting that bolt of sheer electrical pleasure from her touch. "Christine, I..."

"Oh," she said, flushing in realization. "I'm sorry, I didn't think..."

An anxious chuckle was her answer as Erik stroked his thumbs over her nipples. "It's fine. It's just been a while. A very long while. And thinking is definitely _not_ what we are doing."

With an answering smile she shimmied from the dresser top and stood to press herself against him, standing on tiptoe to kiss his jaw and throat. Erik groaned and turned her gently, his hands on her hips, running up the sides of her ribs and around to cup her breasts, stroking and caressing downwards as she shivered against him. "May I?" His broad hands rested on her waistband.

"Oh yes," she breathed, and the button slowly, slowly released, the trousers eased over her hips. Now she was standing in nothing but her lacy panties, feeling the heat of his arousal against her back as Erik swept her hair to one side, kissing her neck, one hand on her hip and the other at her breast. The hand came around to the front, slowly, agonizingly slowly, his fingers smoothing across the slight curve of her stomach and lower, brushing across the lace.

Could he sense how aroused she was? His hand was on the inside of her thigh now, stroking the tender flesh but not moving higher, tension in his posture. Waiting, she realized for her to give permission. Christine slid her hand upwards, along his mask and into his hair, winding fingers through the soft strands, then covered his lower hand with her own, raising it higher.

She was warm, trembling, and he stroked her gently over the lace before two fingers slid under, brushing her damp curls. Christine shuddered and moved her feet apart, granting him access, and he carefully sought the wet warmth and soft slick folds, the small bundle of nerves that would bring her the most pleasure. She arched against his hand with a gasp and he pressed against her, his body begging for freedom and release.

Not fair to him. Christine pulled his hand away, patting it reassuringly, and turned in his arms, kissing him, arms around his waist and squeezing his buttocks, pulling him toward her. He thrust against her once, the fabric straining over his near-painful erection she smiled against his chest. "Interested, are we?" she grinned, and stroked him along his length.

"Very," he muttered, as her hand caressed him, and suddenly it was too much. Erik tried to step back but the throbbing pressure had built beyond control and his muscles clenched, spasming. A second later, her face flooding with understanding, Christine locked an arm around him, stroking over and over the fabric as he rocked against her hand.

Erik panted against her ear, his body shaking, turning to stone in her arms. "Christ, that was not...I'm sorry, I..."

"Are you kidding? That's the hottest thing I've ever done," she said, face pink. "And don't think you're getting away with that being the end, sir."

"Absolutely not," he rasped, pulling the sticky fabric over his softening member, wiping himself clean with the wadded fabric and dropping it to the floor. "Your turn."

He hooked thumbs over the lace at her hips and eased them down, worshiping her body with his eyes. "My god you are so beautiful, and I'm so so sorry, it's just..."

"It's been a while. For me, too," she admitted. He lifted her in his arms and walked the four steps to his bed.

"Dammit."

The bed was neatly made and she laughed against his neck. "It's fine, put me down." Christine wiggled to the floor as Erik pulled back the covers, and then found herself lifted and laid tenderly across the soft sheets, burrowing into the covers. The mattress dipped slightly with his weight and he pulled her closer, kissing her.

"Erik," she said softly, and brushed her fingers along the lines of the mask, "will you..."

"No," he said instantly, his voice pained and rough. "No, Christine, please...don't ask that of me."

She continued to caress the back of his head, his neck, soothing the tension. "It's ok...I promise. I want you with me tonight...please." He pressed his face into her neck, saying nothing and she held him, fingers lightly running down his back, tracing the scars. "It's ok, if you can't...if you don't...but it's ok."

They were so painfully vulnerable to each other. She curled around him, kissing the thin, unresponsive lips, tangling her fingers in his hair. The shock of the livid scars had worn off many months ago, replaced by the way his dark eyes lit in her presence and the way one side of his mouth quirked upward with humor. There were words she couldn't bring herself to say yet, but they were there in her core, a strength and trust and a sense of rightness, and she could only pray he felt them too.

One hand rose to the back of the neoprene mask, fumbling at the elastic and velcro, then fell to the pillow, his fist clenched, his breathing ragged. Slowly, Christine slid her hand along his back, his shoulder, his neck. Beneath her touch he tensed but said nothing, and she carefully pulled the edges, easing the material up and away from his skin.

The hairpiece was missing, of course, the ruinous edges of his face harsh in the moonlight, and Erik pressed the good side into the pillow beside her. Trembling, Christine ran her fingers through his rumpled hair, smoothing the strands made spiky from the mask, and then swept them across the burned flesh, the greying area rougher, then down, cradling his cheek. He drew a shaking breath, eyes shut, black lashes lying wetly against the dark hollow of his eye socket and she kissed him, holding him tightly.

"How can you...how..."

"Hush. It's ok. You're just...you. And I want you, with me, in me, tonight."

 _Oh god._ He met her lips in a desperate embrace, his body surging against hers, fingers sweeping from hip to breast, caressing and kissing, lips tugging at her nipples until she ached and arched and gasped, her thumbs tracing the line from groin to hip in electric arcs, his hand sliding lower down between her legs where she was wet and wanting, slow circles of building pressure and tingling sparks, tightening and forgetting to breathe, a growing need that his fingers could not fill, and he was velvet and steel in her hand, heated and pulsing, the tip wet as she traced the outline of the head and he groaned deep in his chest. She pulled his body closer, above her, and when he entered there was only a sense of completion, a deeper longing to press herself more tightly to him, moving together, seeking and adjusting angles until the world went white and shaking, pleasure so intense and tears and clinging, a need to bind themselves so tightly they could not lose this sense of coming home.

* * *

.

Well. They are finally together.

Thanks so much for reading and staying with me through these long waits for updates. Yes, there's one more chapter...I think...

Please review!


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